


The Adventures of Darth Vader

by OsheenNevoy



Category: Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9319412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OsheenNevoy/pseuds/OsheenNevoy
Summary: Darth Vader survives the events of "Return of the Jedi" and joins the Rebellion, bringing a large portion of the Imperial fleet along with him.  As the Rebellion struggles to come to terms with its former Imperials, Vader and his children face the challenge of coming to terms with each other.  Romance develops between a leader of the Alliance and one of Vader's leading officers, but a traitor puts all of the New Alliance at risk.  Meanwhile, the Emperor has his own plans for Vader and his children.  When Luke and Leia are captured by the Emperor, Darth Vader, Han Solo and Chewbacca set out on the Millennium Falcon to rescue them.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This AU fan novel was written between 1997 and 2001. It is complete, and can be found in its entirety at the Star Wars Literary Guild web site (which should turn up with a search under that name). I'm also posting this novel at fanfiction dot net, but thought that I would try it here as well, in hopes of finding some new and different readership. Since this novel was written before the release of the prequel films, it shares none of their backstory and mythology. My interpretation of the backstory of Vader, the identity of Luke and Leia's mother, and so much else in this novel is inspired by the few hints we are given in the original trilogy films. So for anyone expecting to find those elements now so familiar through the prequel trilogy--Padme, the story of how Anakin became Darth Vader through that famous duel around a lava pit, the official version of Palpatine's rise to power--none of that is here. I hope that some readers will enjoy exploring these interpretations that grew out of my love for the original films, and will have fun experiencing this different vision of the Star Wars universe.

**Chapter One**

_My son._

Darth Vader felt the boy's screams, more than he heard them. He felt, more than saw, the jagged blue energy bolts of the Emperor's attack as they seared through Luke Skywalker's body and mind.

 _He is dying,_ Vader thought. Another attack wrenched a twisting howl from Skywalker's lips, and Vader almost stumbled from the impact. He forced himself to focus on the visual, on the scene presented to him by the viewing screens inside his mask. He tried to be calm and analytical, to feel only critical interest as he watched the pattern of Emperor Palpatine's lightning bolts, dancing around and through Skywalker's writhing form.

Luke's howls formed into words. Struggling to sit up, and reaching toward Vader, he screamed, "Father! Please!"

More lightning seared into Luke, and he fell back again. The Emperor paused in his attack, and for a moment the only sounds in the throne room were Vader's mechanised breathing and Luke's tortured gasps.

Vader stared down at his son. Luke's face was reddened with anguish, his eyes squeezed shut. He was huddled into a foetal position, and the sight hit Vader with an unexpected surge of guilt.

 _I have never been there for him,_ Vader thought. _Never._ He hadn't even been there when Luke and Leia's mother was pregnant with them. He hadn't even known.

 _It wasn't my fault,_ he insisted stubbornly.

No, it wasn't his fault. But still -- Still. He couldn't get away from it. If he'd never been there for Luke before, he had to stand by him now.

The Emperor said, in a cold, emotionless tone, "Now, young Skywalker, you will die."

Blue lightning soared out of Palpatine's hands. Luke screamed, and Vader felt his son's life burning away. As Vader took one step toward the Emperor and Luke, his mind seemed totally unconnected to his actions. He started to reach for the Emperor, to drag him away from Luke. But before he could grab hold of Palpatine, Luke twisted violently on the floor by Vader's feet, and one of Luke's legs brushed against Vader's right boot.

The contact sent Vader staggering back. He sucked in a breath, chills rushing through him as he realised what had happened. When he and Luke had touched, an edge of Palpatine's attack had passed into him through Luke. Every nerve in Vader's body still tingled from the blast.

 _If I touch Palpatine,_ Vader thought, _his attack would go into me. It could kill me. Then I'll be no use to Luke at all._

Suddenly he knew what to do. He raised his right arm, from which the hand had been sliced in his own duel with Luke, moments before. He did not need the hand. His whole body seemed irrelevant. He was only the power surging through him -- a power stronger than he had ever felt it before.

 _Luke,_ he thought. A bolt of crimson lightning sprang from the stump of Vader's wrist. It was followed by others, that leapt from Vader's form and for an instant swirled around him. The power coalesced into a vast wave of red light, and swept from Vader toward the Emperor.

The red wave shattered against the Emperor's lightning. Tendrils of red twined themselves around the blue. They pulled the blue lightning upward, away from Luke Skywalker's body. The Emperor turned to face Vader. Master and follower gazed at each other, through the pulsing wall of red and blue light. There was no surprise on the Emperor's face. Surprise would have been too human. His yellow eyes, immense and unblinking, seemed to pierce through the light, through Vader's mask, into Vader himself. Slowly, the Emperor smiled.

_My friend._

The Emperor's voice, heavy with mockery, writhed through Vader's mind. Vader felt Palpatine's presence squirm through him, twisting its way into each thought. It felt as though skeletal fingers, each burning with icy fire, were closing around his soul.

 _My friend._ _You've lost your way. Come with me. I can show you. I can help you find it again._

The fingers were closing tighter. _Come with me. You don't yet understand the power you can have, with me. Only with me. Come ..._

The light shuddered and started to buckle. The Emperor's blue light pressed the red back, toward Vader. It rushed at him. He flung up his arm again, and the light stopped, only inches away.

 _Power?_ Vader thought back. _No, my Master. I've wasted my life for your power. I will waste it no more._ He seized at the presence inside him. Mentally, he pried at those fingers, at each tendril of thought, wrenching them away.

The light sprang back at the Emperor. A few isolated bolts of red broke loose from their blue opponents and swept into Palpatine's body. The Emperor stumbled backward and fell.

Vader gasped, falling to one knee. He stared at Emperor Palpatine. They were both weakening, Vader knew. The Emperor's voice in his mind was only a whisper now. But the power that surged through Vader, striking through him at Palpatine, was burning him from within. He wondered if he could incinerate his Master before he himself was a pile of ashes. The battle of light still raged closer to Palpatine than to him. Occasional red flashes continued to break past the blue, striking at the Emperor. But their number was decreasing. Slowly, the blue side of the wall was growing stronger.

Behind him and to his right, Vader heard a groan and the sounds of Luke Skywalker struggling up to his hands and knees.

 _Luke,_ Vader thought. _Luke, help me._

Palpatine had regained his feet. He held out both his hands, and the blue grew darker, until his form was almost invisible behind it. A tremor ran through the scarlet light, and then, slowly, the red started to fade.

_Luke! I need you!_

Vader did not see Luke move to stand beside him. But he felt it as another wave of power rose at his side, flowing into the battle and joining its strength with Vader's own.

He felt the boy's emotions as well. Wonder, amazement at the power he was wielding. Pain too, and fear, and anger, but all of them subsumed by the startled joy Luke felt in fighting at his father's side.

White light now gleamed alongside the red. The blue, in its turn, began to pale.

The Emperor took a step backward. Then another. The blue light wavered.

Vader felt the heat of Palpatine's thoughts. _You are mine,_ came Palpatine's voice, spiraling through all the pathways of Vader's mind.

 _You are no longer my Master,_ Vader replied. One final tremor surged through the light, of all colours. Then the last of the blue light vanished. The Emperor vanished with it.

Slowly, the red glow and the white faded from sight.

Vader drew in a breath, shakily rising to his feet. The power that had raged through him was slipping away. It was succeeded by exhaustion -- and by a weirdly unfamiliar feeling that at first he couldn't identify.

 _Fear?_ he wondered. _Why? Why be afraid now, when I wasn't before?_

Suddenly he saw the answer to that question. With a jolt of wonder as strong as the wonder he had felt from Luke, he realised that ahead of him lay no certainties at all.

He was going to have to live his own life. "Yes, my Master" just wouldn't cut it any more.

Beside him, Vader heard Luke's strained, panting breaths. He turned his head and saw the young man doubled over in pain, arms clutched around his sides.

"Luke?" Vader began, startled by the hesitancy in his own voice.

Luke was staring at the place where the Emperor had stood. There was nothing there. No sign of the robe Palpatine had worn; nothing.

"Is he dead?" Luke gasped out.

If he were, Vader felt sure he would have known it. This was not like that other time, when he had struck down Obi Wan Kenobi and had felt both the man and his essence slip into some realm that Vader could not reach.

 _Strange,_ Vader thought. _I always seem to be striking down my Masters. There is a certain lack of imagination in my life pattern._

He realised that he had not yet answered Luke's question. "No." He sighed. "It won't be that easy for us. But he will need time to recover. We may have some time without him."

Painfully, Luke pulled himself upright. "Do you know where he is?" he asked.

Vader turned his feelings inward, to the echoes of the Emperor's presence. He tried to follow them, but the paths were very faint, swiftly fading into nothing. He shook his head. "Far from here," he said. "Not on the Death Star. Unless he's shielding himself ... but I don't think he could. Not so soon."

"Father ... " Luke began.

His words were cut off as eight men ran into the room. They were crimson from head to foot, masked, wearing full-length red robes. The Emperor's personal guard. The men brandished their blaster rifles at Luke and Darth Vader, but Vader could feel the confusion welling out of them. He could almost see it. Their beings pulsated with loss and fear.

The Emperor, Vader realised, must have held their minds in his grasp. His sudden flight had torn him from them.

Why had he not called for them during the battle? Was he simply too proud to accept that he might need mere human help?

One of the guards, levelling his rifle at Vader, demanded, "Where is the Emperor?" His voice shook.

"He has fled," Vader said mercilessly. "He has betrayed you. He has betrayed us all." The guards hesitated.

"No," their leader said truculently. "You are lying, Dark Lord."

His finger closed on the trigger. Vader's thoughts tore the rifle from the man's grasp. It clattered to rest at the far end of the throne room.

There was a chorus of yells from the guards. Three others moved to fire. Three more rifles soared from their owners' hands, one spiralling down off the bridge of the Emperor's throne room into the Death Star's distant power core.

The four remaining blaster rifles were sliced from the guards' clutches in a green swathe of light. When the first guard started to fire, Luke must have used the Force to regain his lightsaber, which had been lying near the steps to Palpatine's throne. Now Luke leaped into the midst of the guards, annihilating their rifles with one swing of his saber before the men had time to even flinch back. Luke stepped away from them, deactivating his lightsaber and calmly standing, watching them.

Vader smiled internally. _Showy, but effective._ He could appreciate showiness himself.

The guards wavered uncertainly. Vader put a little gentle pressure on their throats, just enough to hold them there. He turned, strode to the nearest com panel and opened a channel to the Death Star's chief security officer.

Moments later, the young captain whom Vader had summoned appeared in the doorway, the white forms of six stormtroopers ranked behind him.

"Captain Faren," Vader greeted him pleasantly, "I commend your promptness. You are to place these officers under arrest."

Captain Faren gasped. "Under arrest, My Lord? The Emperor's guard?"

"The Emperor has fled. I am in command here, Captain. Do you understand?"

Captain Faren's swift review of his priorities was clearly readable on his face. "Yes, My Lord!" he said emphatically.

"Good. I am holding you personally responsible for these men, Captain."

"Yes, My Lord!" The shocked guards made little protest as Faren and his stormtroopers herded them away.

Vader almost relaxed. He turned toward Luke, about to speak, when a sudden jolt shook the room around them. Luke stumbled and caught himself on one of the railings of the bridge.

Vader cursed under his breath. _You never get a breeze without a sandstorm,_ he thought. _That_ was no blow from the Force. It was the more mundane threat of a space station under attack.

 _Of course,_ he reminded himself, _we're about to be destroyed. Again. I'd forgotten about that._

"Luke," he said wearily. "We have to stop the attack."

Luke stared at him in confusion. "Stop the attack?" he echoed.

Vader crossed to Luke, reaching out his one remaining hand and gripping his son's shoulder with perhaps more strength than he should have used. "Stop the attack," he repeated, more harshly than he had intended. "Before your friends destroy this station."

Luke blinked, and seemed to come halfway back to reality. "Maybe we can escape -- before they destroy it -- "

"Escape?" Vader's voice vibrated with scorn.

He was suddenly furious, as he had not been in his battle with the Emperor. He had felt no anger then, only a blind determination not to give in. Now, he wanted to fling his son through a wall.

"Yes, Luke, we could escape. And what of the other thousands of lives on this station?"

He let go of Luke's arm, only barely managing to restrain himself from hurling the boy away from him like so much garbage. "You are the good one in the family, aren't you, son? You belong to the Light Side of the Force, you never hate. And you don't care if thousands of beings perish!" He gave a short, dark chuckle. "How many have you killed, boy? All the lives of the Jedi, for all the lives on two Death Stars? It makes a father's heart proud to see his son follow in his footsteps."

Luke stared at him, blue eyes growing wide in something approaching horror.

 _And while I give my son a lecture,_ Vader thought, _this station is going to be annihilated._

He turned suddenly and swept back to the com panel, punching the buttons which opened an emergency, general broadcasting channel. He would be heard throughout the Death Star, over-riding all other signals. He would be heard in every ship of the fleet and in every Rebel ship as well, his visage appearing on every view screen.

"This is Lord Darth Vader, Commander of the Imperial Fleet." His voice was as powerful and authoritative as usual. "Cease firing. I repeat, cease firing. This station and all Imperial vessels, you are to power down your weapons and cease hostilities. Rebel fleet," he went on, "stop your attack. This station surrenders. We wish to negotiate a truce."

The panel before him suddenly lit up with a barrage of incoming signals. The audio inputs burst into chaotic life, with several hundred messages arriving simultaneously.

Vader looked away from the panel, to see Luke walking toward him. There was a wary look on the young man's face as neared his father, but he stepped resolutely into the transmission area, Vader moving aside to allow him to enter it.

"This is Commander Luke Skywalker," Luke said, in as firm a voice as his father's. "Rebel fleet, call off the attack. Admiral Ackbar, Lando, cease firing. Fall back. Youmust. The Death Star has surrendered."

Luke switched off the communication, turning to Vader with a quizzical expression. "I don't know if they'll go with this," he said. "They're not going to trust you. They'll think you're controlling me. What about the Imperials? Will they listen to you?"

"They will if they wish to continue breathing." He studied the identification codes of the incoming signals, and opened a channel to the transmission of the admiral commanding the Imperial forces.

On the screen, Admiral Piett appeared white-faced and staring, standing on the deck of his Star Destroyer. Officers were milling behind him like short-circuiting droids.

"Lord Vader," the Admiral croaked. "What -- Will you repeat your transmission?"

"I should not need to," Vader purred. "Admiral Piett, you have received an order."

"Yes, Lord, but -- but I don't understand -- "

"Cease fire, Admiral," continued Vader, with beautiful patience. "Break off hostilities, and withdraw to a safe distance from the Rebel Fleet."

The Admiral hesitated, clearly aware that he should not keep protesting, yet just as aware that in this case it was his duty to protest. "What has happened, My Lord?" he asked uneasily.

"The Emperor has fled. I am now in command, and I will put an end to this useless conflict."

Frank disbelief broke through the fear on the Admiral's face, and Vader wryly reflected that he could not blame the man. Darth Vader, the champion of peace! It did not, on the whole, sound very likely.

"But My Lord, the Rebels are still firing -- "

"Then show our good faith by breaking off combat first, Admiral," and Vader cut off the transmission. He switched over to the transmission of Commander Jerjerrod, the officer nominally in command of the Death Star.

The channel opened to reveal Jerjerrod in mid-scream, apparently demanding some explanation from a pale young junior officer who had his gaze fixed beyond Jerjerrod's shoulder and clearly longed desperately to be somewhere else.

"Forgive me for interrupting, Commander," said Vader.

Jerjerrod whirled to face the screen. "Lord Vader!" he gulped. The fear that Vader inspired in every sane officer momentarily wiped the fury from Jerjerrod's face. But he was clearly too outraged at Vader's actions to listen to his fear. "What does this mean?" Jerjerrod demanded. "What are you doing? What gives you the right -- "

Jerjerrod was an idiot. Vader had thought so since the first day the Commander had intruded on his consciousness. This was going to be a pleasure. Ever so slowly, he took a mental grip on Jerjerrod's throat, watching with appreciation as his face reddened and his eyes started to bulge. "You question my right, Commander?" Vader asked mildly. "I believe I still out-rank you. It is my command that this station surrender. Have you any objections?" Jerjerrod gave a gurgling choke.

"Father." Luke's voice came quiet and urgent from Vader's side. "Father. Stop it. Please."

 _Damn,_ Vader thought. _Of course. My sensitive little son thinks I'm Good again._ Reluctantly, he began to loosen his hold on Jerjerrod's windpipe.

"The Death Star surrenders," Vader said calmly. He let go, and Jerjerrod lurched backward, sprawling on the metal floor. "Is that quite clear, Commander?" He noted Jerjerrod's jerky nod and hoarse gasp of acknowledgement, but could still read resistance in his eyes.

Vader thought, _If I'm going to make this work, I may have to strangle the entire Fleet. When Luke isn't looking, of course._ Vader turned toward his son. "Your turn," he said.

With a sudden, surprised grin, Luke opened a channel to the Admiral of his own fleet. The Mon Calamari Admiral Ackbar appeared amidst a scene of uproar as great as on the Imperial Star Destroyer. The tentacles at the Admiral's chin quivered in his agitation. "Commander Skywalker!" he gasped out. " What is happening -- "

"It's all right, Admiral," Luke said, trying to sound calming. "It's true. The Emperor has been overthrown by Darth Vader. Vader wants a truce. He means it, Admiral --" Stress was starting to creep into Luke's voice, as he realised how ridiculous he was sounding. _Darth Vader wants a truce. Yes, and it's snowing on Tatooine and the Hutts have started a weight-loss program._ "He means it. Withdraw out of range, but stop firing. Call off the attack on the Death Star."

Vader stepped into the viewing range of the transmission. "Admiral Ackbar," he greeted the enemy commander, who jumped with shock at being addressed by Darth Vader. "You have my word. Once combat has ceased, all personnel will be evacuated from this station, and you may continue your destruction of this Death Star without interference. If you would trust me to do as I say, I myself would initiate the station's self destruct program. The Death Star is the dream of a madman. It has no place in a government which hopes for any peace with its people."

Admiral Ackbar gaped at the screen, his already prominent eyes seeming ready to leap off his the sides of his head. Then from behind him, a Rebel officer ran up, gesturing excitedly at the ship's viewports. "Admiral Ackbar! The Imperials are falling back! They're falling back!"

From offscreen, another voice shouted "I don't believe it! The Death Star's weapons are powering down!"

Vader allowed a moment for the upsurge of chaos, then he said dryly, "Admiral, I would like to arrange a meeting with the representatives of the Alliance. I will contact you again when the separation of our fleets is complete." He cut the transmission.

Luke was staring at him, with an expression wavering between hope, fear, and hero-worship. "I can't believe this," he whispered in awe. "I just can't believe this ... "

 _Neither can I,_ thought Darth Vader. He sighed heavily, looking at the boy.

 _I have a son,_ he thought. _I have a son_ and _a daughter. And both of them have very good reasons to hate me. And I'm trying to initiate a reconciliation process and bring peace to the galaxy -- peace! As if peace can ever exist when living beings are involved! -- and no one, no one is going to trust me._

 _Wherever he is,_ Vader thought, _Obi Wan Kenobi is getting a very big kick out of this._

Nothing in his life had been simple. Nothing, despite all of Obi Wan's preaching about the Dark Side being the easier path.

Nothing had been easy. But this, he realised, looking into the wide blue eyes of his son, was going to be the most difficult of all.

* * *

 

The clearing was filled with sullen stormtroopers. They were seated on the ground, most of them slumped, some with their chins on their hands, their gleaming white armour looking ludicrously out of place amid the vibrant green ferns. Some had removed their helmets, revealing faces that must seem, to their Rebel captors, surprisingly young, ill-nourished and miserable. Most were sweating profusely, and one kept up a quiet, steady litany of curses as he tried to slap away the insects that insisted on buzzing around his head.

Nearby, their officer, in a grey-green Imperial uniform, stood leaning against one of this moon's enormous trees, scowling at his men and at life in general. The soldiers had all been disarmed. They were being guarded by a handful of Rebel commandos and, far more embarrassingly, by several of those loathsome fuzzy creatures that had assisted the Rebels in their takeover. The Imperial officer glowered at the nearest of the pudgy little vermin, and longed to kick it across the clearing. It was chattering at him smugly, waving its tiny hand-made spear at his kneecap.

The officer sighed and closed his eyes. If he did kick the damned beast, one of the Rebel guards would probably blast him. It really wasn't worth it. _Almost, though,_ he thought wistfully. _Almost._ He could just hear the crunch the creature would make as it catapulted into a tree trunk.

At that moment the comlink on his wrist sputtered into life. From the sudden jumps of several of the stormtroopers, the same message was coming through the links in their helmets. The officer looked intently at his wrist comlink, ignoring a Rebel guard who raised his blaster and pointed it at him. According to the identification code flashing on the comlink's screen, the message coming through was a general emergency broadcast.

Then the officer jumped as well, and felt a cold, creeping sensation wriggle down his spine. The voice that spoke out of his comlink, even though made small and metallic through the link, was the unmistakable dark tone of Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith.

"This is Lord Darth Vader, Commander of the Imperial Fleet. Cease firing. I repeat, cease firing. This station and all Imperial vessels, you are to power down your weapons and cease hostilities. Rebel fleet, stop your attack. This station surrenders. We wish to negotiate a truce."

Imperial officer and Rebel commando stared at each other, both wearing identical looks of flabbergasted amazement. The clearing erupted in a jumble of startled conversation, everyone speaking at once, with most comments beginning along the lines of "What the hell?"

One of the Rebels yelled, "Shut up! There's more!"

The officer put his comlink up to his ear, and sure enough, there was another voice, repeating a similar message. One of the Rebel leaders, it sounded like. He looked around the clearing, watching the distinctions between prisoners and guards temporarily evaporate as stormtroopers and Rebels yelled the same useless questions at each other.

More of the Rebels were running into the clearing, blasters in hand. At their head was the pretty, brown-haired princess in her camouflage outfit, closely followed by the tall, scruffy man who seemed to be her sidekick. The princess strode up to the Imperial officer. He noticed that she'd taken a blaster-shot in her left arm during the battle, but it didn't seem too serious. She raised her blaster toward his face. "What's going on?" she demanded.

"Do I know, princess?" he asked sourly. "Not all members of the Imperial army are psychic, you know."

"Do you know anything about that message? Was it planned?"

"Princess, Darth Vader isn't in the habit of discussing his plans with me!"

She scowled impatiently and turned away from him. "We've got to hear the message again," she said to her companions. "Was anyone recording it ... ?" The princess was answered by blank, helpless looks from the others.

Feeling awkward for having snapped at her, the Imperial officer said tentatively, "Uh, Princess ... one of our walkers is still intact, isn't it? The message will have come through on its link, and the Walker's computer records all messages automatically."

She turned back toward him, looking surprised. "Oh -- thanks. What's your name?" she asked.

"Arin Pellar, Your Highness." Officially, Commander Arin Pellar, but it looked like he wasn't going to be commanding much of anything for the foreseeable future.

She favoured him with a very small smile. "All right, Arin," she said, gesturing with her blaster, "let's you and me go visit your walker. Han," she added to her sidekick, "get on the com to Admiral Ackbar. Find out what the hell's going on."

Pellar and the Princess set out, several of the other Rebels falling into step behind them. The two-legged AT-ST walker was parked beside the smouldering ruins of what had until ten minutes ago been an Imperial bunker. As the Princess' group approached, the hatch at the top of the walker opened, and a huge, hairy Wookiee emerged, waving wildly at the Princess and giving vent to a series of barks and howls. Pellar wasn't sure, but he thought the Wookiee sounded confused. _Join the club,_ he thought.

"Chewie," the Princess called. "You heard the message?"

The Wookiee nodded, with several more barking noises. "Lower the Walker, Chewie," said the Princess. "We should be able to get the message to replay."

The Wookiee disappeared back down the hatch, and almost immediately the Walker's legs folded inward on themselves, bringing the cabin of the Walker down almost to ground level. Pellar helped boost the Princess up to the hatch, a process complicated by her trying not to put any weight on her injured arm. As Pellar scrambled into the hatch after the princess, with one of the Rebels following him, he tried not to let his thoughts dwell on the fact that his hands had briefly been in contact with the Princess' breasts. _What a claim to fame,_ he thought. _I've touched the breasts of Princess Leia Organa. That ought to keep me warm through all the long winter nights of my life._

Pellar swiftly located the message, then was elbowed aside as Princess, Wookiee and Rebel commando huddled over the Walker's view-screen, replaying the message over and over again. Catching a sight of the screen over Princess Leia's shoulder, Pellar was interested to note how young this Commander Luke Skywalker appeared. _That's the guy who blew up the first Death Star?_ he wondered. _Holy shit. Why the hell did we go and build another one, when any kid can blow it into smithereens?_

The princess sighed. She froze the message on a frame showing Skywalker's young, earnest features, and turned away from the screen, trying to shove some wisps of hair out of her face.

"I don't know," she said wearily. "It looks and sounds like Luke, but I suppose with the transmission as distant as it is, we wouldn't be able to tell if the image had been tampered with. And Vader could be controlling him ... damn it, what's going on?"

Her friend Han appeared at the open hatch, dropping into the cockpit to join them. Pellar plastered himself back against a wall just in time to avoid Han stepping on his foot.

Han handed the Princess a larger portable com-unit. "Here," he said, sounding just as irritable and confused as everyone else. "I finally got Ackbar for you."

She briefly smiled her thanks, then opened the transmission. "Admiral! Do you have any idea what's happening?"

A gruff voice emerged from the com-unit, but Pellar couldn't see the view-screen. "I'm sorry, Princess Leia," said the voice, "your guess is as good as ours. Vader's been in contact with us. He wants to meet to arrange a truce. So he says."

"A truce!" Leia almost screamed. "Admiral, you can't trust him! You know what the Empire's like, what sort of tactics they use. It's obviously a trap, you've got to continue the attack before it's too late -- "

"I know, Your Highness. That's what we all thought. But the Death Star has powered down its weapons, and the Imperial Fleet has withdrawn to the other side of the moon. There's some talk that the Emperor has been overthrown, or killed. I can't see that we have a choice. If there's a chance we can end this without further loss of life ... we're negotiating with Vader on where the meeting should be, who should be there. You'll be included, of course. For now, I believe it's safest if you remain on the moon, on guard, till we know more of the situation."

A look of deep pain touched the Princess' face. "Admiral," she said quietly, "we've lost a lot of good people trying to win this battle. If we lose now through letting Vader trick us, their spirits will never forgive us."

"I know, Your Highness," the voice sighed. "Be patient. We're doing everything we can." And the link was cut. Princess Leia put down the com-unit, then she threw herself into the arms of Han.

 _Lucky bastard,_ Pellar thought, _maybe I should have joined the Rebellion. Only I guess there aren't enough princesses to go around._

"Oh, Han," the Princess murmured, "I can't stand it. Where's Luke? What's he doing? Why doesn't he contact us?"

"I don't know," Han said softly. "Look, Leia, let's get out of here. We'll get your arm tended to."

This time Han was the one who helped Leia through the hatch, and Pellar remained forlornly in the background, wondering if anyone was going to notice him again. Someone did, eventually; the Wookiee prodded Pellar with a bowcaster and gestured for Pellar to precede him out of the Walker. Pellar sighed and obeyed.

Outside, twilight was beginning to fall. As he joined his men back in the clearing -- he sat down this time, no longer bothering to assert his officer status by remaining standing -- Pellar saw the glint of the Death Star in the purpling sky.

 _What is happening up there?_ he wondered. His men, praise all the Powers, were nervously avoiding him; he didn't think he could take much more of people asking him what was going on.

The fuzzy natives of the moon were scurrying about, setting up large torches around the edges of the clearing so that the prisoners could be guarded through the night. When it was almost fully dark, purple sky blending inevitably into black, a larger contingent of the furry animals arrived, bearing two large cauldrons suspended from poles. They delivered one to the side of the clearing where Leia and her followers were sitting, and more grudgingly deposited the other next to the cluster of stormtroopers. Piles of wooden bowls were left beside the gently steaming cauldron.

"Sir," began one of the stormtroopers hesitantly, nodding toward the cauldron, "is it all right if we ... "

Pellar nodded. "Go ahead," he said flatly. He himself was not hungry. He had heard rumours that these furry beasts ate humans, and he really didn't fancy any stormtrooper stew.

Across the clearing, Han Solo was gingerly dipping a ladle into the other cauldron, and eyeing the ladle's contents with almost equal trepidation. It looked like vegetables, anyway. He devoutly hoped it was. Having come close to being dinner last night, he had his own doubts about Ewok cookery. "I guess it's safe," he muttered, ladling stew into a bowl and handing it to Leia.

"Thanks." Her voice was very quiet. Han reluctantly served some stew for himself, then passed the ladle to the man sitting next to him. Han settled back against a tree trunk beside Leia, being sure to avoid bumping against her injured arm. He took a tentative slurp of the stew, decided that yes, it probably was vegetables, and looked over at Leia. Her face looked wan, almost ghostly in the flickering torchlight.

"Hey," said Han, trying to sound cheerful. "Come on, this stew ain't that bad."

"I know, Han," she sighed, turning a faint smile on him. Her eyes were huge and dark, filled with concern. "Han," she whispered, "I'm so worried about Luke. If he's all right, he should have contacted us by now. What if Vader's gotten to him, forced him to send that message? He could be a prisoner, now, or -- "

"Hey, take it easy," urged Han, bending down to kiss Leia's forehead. "Luke's okay. He can take care of himself." Which was something Han firmly didn't believe, but it was what had to be said.

"Maybe," said Leia. She rested her head on Han's shoulder, the bowl of stew lying forgotten in her hand. Han tried rather awkwardly to stroke Leia's hair, again without brushing against her wounded arm. I really should be sitting on the other side of her, he thought, but it would kind of take the spontaneity out of things if he got up to sit on her other side.

The problem suddenly decreased in importance, as they heard a call from a guard at the other side of the clearing. "Princess Leia! General Solo! Someone approaching!"

Leia stood up, as did Han, who barely avoided spilling stew over himself. Beyond the torches, they could see a human-sized figure walking toward them, surrounded by Ewoks who ran along on either side, chirping excitedly. The figure and its entourage stepped into the clearing and the light, and Leia cried out delightedly, "Lando!"

The figure called, "Leia! Han!" and waved at them, pausing as he almost tripped over an Ewok.

Leia hurried toward Lando. Han followed, _almost_ not jealous as he watched Leia clasp Lando Calrissian's hand, and Lando bend down and kiss Leia on both cheeks. Calrissian looked as spruce as ever, and Han wondered how his old friend managed to emerge from every crisis looking like a gentlemen's clothing advertisement.

"Hey, old buddy," greeted Han, punching Lando's shoulder. "Still with us, hunh? My ship still in one piece?"

"Mostly," Lando said a little shamefacedly. He stroked his moustache, trying to regain his usual suave air.

"Mostly?" Han squawked.

Lando found a diversion. Looking in distaste at the Ewoks that were still milling around his legs, he asked, "what are these things?"

Leia smiled tolerantly at the disgust in Lando's voice. "They're Ewoks, Lando," she said. "They live here."

"They do, hunh? Sooner them than me."

Leia took Lando's arm. "Come on," she said, "come sit down. Have some stew."

At the mention of stew, Han cast an eloquent look at Lando over Leia's head. "Scenic Endor," Han muttered, "culinary centre of the galaxy. You don't wanna know how close we came to being this stew last night."

"I can't wait to try it," Lando said warily.

When they were all seated, and Lando was supplied with his own bowl of stew, Leia said, "Lando, we have almost no idea what's going on up there. I can't get a straight answer out of anyone. Do you know anything? Have you seen Admiral Ackbar?"

"Yeah, I've seen him," Lando answered. "I couldn't really get much sense out of him, either. It's a circus up there, Leia. No one knows what to think; you never saw so many rumours grow so quickly. The Emperor's dead, no, he's not, he's just fled, Darth Vader's taken control, Luke's taken control, Vader's controlling Luke, Luke's controlling Vader, the Emperor's controlling everybody ... " he shook his head, staring disconsolately into his stew. "We were _that close_ ," he murmured. "That close. We were gonna win, you could sense it, we had that damn Death Star. We were already in the shaft, we'd gotten past you-don't-want-to-know-how-many defences, we'd been shooting down TIE fighters left, right and centre ... Another ten seconds -- well, maybe twenty -- okay, thirty, maybe, but no more than that. And then there's Ackbar ordering us to withdraw. Withdraw! Damn it, Han, we had the bastards! The Death Star would have been space dust!"

"So would Luke," Leia reminded him.

"Yeah," groaned Lando. He turned to Leia. "Ackbar's talked with him personally, apparently, but I haven't. Have you -- "

Both Leia and Han gloomily shook their heads.

"Damn," Lando sighed. "I just don't get it. How the hell could Luke and _Vader_ work together ... ?"

Leia said, in a tense, quiet voice, "It is possible." Both men looked at her questioningly. Almost pleadingly, Leia gazed up at Han. "I should have told you before, Han," she began. "But -- I couldn't. I'd only just found out myself, and --"

"Hey, Leia, it's okay. You tell us when you want to."

She stared down at her hands. "When Luke left here last night, he said he was going to try and -- bring Vader back to the Light Side."

"What! Luke's crazy! He couldn't bring an Ewok to the Light Side, never mind the Dark Lord of the fucking Sith!"

She shook her head. "There was a chance. He -- you see --" she looked up at them again. "Han, Lando, this is going to sound very strange. Just be calm, okay? Don't explode on me. Let me finish before you start shouting."

Wordlessly, they nodded. Han reached out and clasped Leia's right hand.

"Luke," Leia said, "is Darth Vader's son."

The two men made inarticulate sounds, which they both managed to cut off before the sounds turned into words.

"Vader used to be Anakin Skywalker. He was a Jedi, a pupil of Obi Wan Kenobi before the Emperor turned Anakin to the Dark Side. Luke thought there was a chance to bring him back. He said he'd felt goodness in Vader -- conflict -- he thought that Anakin wasn't really lost to us ... "

Her voice faded out. Han gripped her hand more tightly.

"There's more," Leia continued. "Luke told all of this to me because -- because we're family. Luke is my twin brother."

Han stared at her. "Your brother ... " he whispered.

"But -- wait a minute," breathed Lando. "That means -- doesn't it -- "

Princess Leia looked solemnly at them. "Yes," she said. "Darth Vader is my father."

* * *

 

On the Super Star Destroyer _Executor_ , Admiral Piett had been pacing along the same three metres of deck for the past twenty minutes. Four steps in one direction, turn on his heel, four steps back again, another turn, over and over ad nauseam. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back; he supposed he really ought to unclasp them, as he was going to lose circulation in them if he didn't. In the last three minutes, his pacing had gotten somewhat faster, as had his heartbeat and, though he was trying very hard to regulate it, his breathing.

Three minutes was how long it had been since one of his officers informed him that Darth Vader had been in contact with them, and was going to pay Piett a visit.

Piett's world was rapidly disintegrating around him, but really, he supposed, that wasn't much of a loss. He'd already lived several months longer than he'd expected to when he was promoted to Admiral. That kind of promotion, with Lord Vader around, was pretty much equal to a death sentence. You might, if you were lucky, avoid the Dark Lord's wrath for a few days, maybe for weeks or months, but sooner or later something would go wrong, you'd be the one with responsibility, and crunch, the bones in your neck would start snapping and your windpipe would start closing in on itself, and if Vader was really trying to make a point, he'd fling you across the room into a bulkhead rather than simply strangling you on the spot.

Piett had spoken once, years ago, with an officer who'd been strangled by Vader and had survived due to a timely distraction. The man's account still haunted Piett. He had a vivid imagination, and he wished that he did not. He could already hear all his bones breaking, one by one, could visualise his veins bursting, his eyes bulging from their sockets ...

 _Oh, Gods._ What was he doing here? Why hadn't he stayed at home and taken over the store like Dad had wanted him to? You might get bored running a trading post in a star system most people had never heard of, but at least you seldom had Jedi lords dropping by to choke you to death.

"Sir?" came the voice of Lieutenant Morn. "Lord Vader's shuttle has just arrived in the Docking Bay."

_Stop pacing, unclasp your hands, and try to breathe steadily. After all, this is probably the last chance you'll have to breathe at all._

Admiral Piett was standing at attention when Vader swept onto the Star Destroyer's main bridge, the Dark Lord's cape billowing out impressively behind him as he strode. At the corner of his vision, Piett could see his officers trying to make themselves as unobtrusive as possible.

 _Bastards,_ he thought glumly. _Just you wait. Once he's strangled me, one of you is next in the queue._

In front of Piett, Vader stopped, black-gloved hands resting on his belt, and said, "Admiral Piett. Might I speak with you in private?"

Piett's innards lurched. _Private?_ Usually Vader liked an audience for his killings, so he could make an example of them. Surely there wasn't any form of killing so gruesome that Vader didn't like being watched at it? Then again, who knew how Vader thought?

"Of course, My Lord," Piett said, glad to hear that his voice wasn't emerging as a squeak. "Come into my office."

In the office, Piett offered Vader a seat, which the Dark Lord politely declined. Piett thought, _Maybe he doesn't think he looks intimidating enough sitting down. Though Hell, I'd certainly still be intimidated._ Piett couldn't possibly offer his guest a drink, either, not without sounding insulting. So, though his own throat was parched, Piett tried to ignore it. He stood awkwardly and waited for Vader to say something.

"Admiral," Vader said, "I believe I owe you an explanation."

Now Piett did squeak. "Explanation, My Lord?"

The rumble of Vader's voice seemed to hold amusement, though it was possible that Piett was imagining it. "I realise I do not frequently explain myself. You are thinking that I am more likely to strangle an officer than explain anything to him. And you would be right, in normal circumstances. These circumstances are no longer normal."

Piett swallowed, not trusting his voice to come up with anything intelligible.

"Admiral Piett," Vader went on, "what are your ambitions?"

_Oh, no. If that's not a Darth Vader trick question, I don't know what is._

_Well, he decided, I might as well tell the truth. Don't have much to lose._ Piett swallowed again, then said, "To serve the Empire faithfully, and to stay alive."

Vader inclined his head slightly. "Very laudable goals." This time Piett was sure that the Dark Lord was amused. "I share the second of your goals, but I am experiencing doubts about the first."

 _Doubts? Darth Vader? Doubts about serving the Empire?_ Piett wished that he could sit down.

"Please have a seat, Admiral," Vader urged him, and Piett numbly obeyed, shakily propelling himself into his desk chair.

Vader sat down casually on the edge of Piett's desk, and Piett wondered if he might be hallucinating all of this. Vader said, "I would like to emerge from the present conflict reasonably successful, and alive. I am no longer convinced that either is possible if I remain with the Empire." He appeared to be looking more closely at Piett, although of course with that mask it was hard to tell. "You may calm yourself, Admiral. I have no intention of strangling you today."

 _Calm_ was not a very accurate description of Piett at that moment, but at least he was starting to emerge from his terror. Lord Vader continued. "Have you ever thought, Admiral Piett, of what serving the Empire means? It is not, of course, part of the job description for a soldier to think. But I suspect that you, at least, do think upon occasion."

_Where is all this leading? What is Vader trying to trick me into?_

"You must have noticed, Admiral, that we are not, in fact, serving the Empire. We are serving the Emperor, and they are not the same. The Empire includes the millions of worlds forced into poverty to pay for our Emperor's military expansion. It also includes the under-trained, conscripted stormtroopers that we throw into battle daily, to be massacred in their thousands by a Rebellion that has little money, but at least takes the time to train its soldiers, and that sees them as living creatures rather than meaningless laser-fodder."

Piett noticed that his mouth had fallen open, and hastily closed it. _Darth Vader, social crusader._ Yes, he really must be hallucinating.

"With all this," Vader went on, "the Empire could still survive, were our Emperor of sound judgement. This he no longer is. Think of it, Admiral Piett. Four years ago, what was the great hope of the Empire? The Death Star, of course. The all-powerful, dreaded Death Star, which was to make the galaxy tremble. The Death Star for which taxes across the galaxy were quadrupled. Then, on its maiden mission, this great hope is annihilated by one schoolboy and a smuggler. So, very well. Not a wise use of money and lives, perhaps, but what can one do except move on from failure and learn by it? Only our Emperor has not learned. Outside this ship, Admiral, sits Death Star II. And a few hours ago, it was almost destroyed in _precisely_ the same way as the first."

Piett gulped, and asked, very quietly, "Lord Vader, where is the Emperor?"

Vader said calmly, "He and I had a disagreement. We fought, and the Emperor fled. He will return, no doubt, but I do not intend to be waiting for him to take his revenge. I intend to throw in my lot with the Rebellion."

Piett choked without the aid of Vader's mental strangling. "My Lord?"

"The Rebels are idealistic and foolish, but at base, they are right. They are right to protest our Emperor's insane arms race that succeeds only in creating more enemies. Right to object to the reign of terror of which we are a part."

Before he could stop it, the thought shot through Piett's mind, _That's pretty rich coming from the man who's spearheaded this reign of terror._ The thought was immediately succeeded by the realisation that Vader had almost certainly heard him think that.

Lord Vader regarded him for a moment, with no sound except for the Dark Lord's wheezing breath, and Piett fought the urge to wipe a trail of sweat from his forehead. Finally Vader said, in a startlingly mild tone, "One's beliefs and goals can change over time. Don't you agree, Admiral?"

Relief swamped Piett. "Yes, My Lord," he said, "of course."

Vader went on, "You must know as well as I that the Empire is disintegrating. I have searched, but I cannot see any means of saving it, or ourselves, while Palpatine still rules. Our Emperor is mad, Piett. If we continue to serve him, we are mad as well."

 _If things ever get back to the point where politicians have to run for office again,_ Piett thought, _Vader's got himself a ready-made career._ The trouble was, of course, that Piett agreed with him. It might be only rhetoric on Vader's part, but it was also true. Not that Piett would have dared to ever say such a thing, if Darth Vader hadn't said it first.

"Lord Vader," he asked, his voice firmer than it had been since the beginning of this interview, "what do you require of me?"

Vader said, "I would _like_ you to join me. I intend to offer my services to the Rebellion, and if they accept, I hope to bring most or all of our troops with me. I have no doubt that all of us will benefit from such an arrangement. Our assistance could cut in half the amount of time needed for this rebellion to triumph. Bloodshed will be decreased, for there will be many in the Imperial forces who would much rather join us than fight. And we will have a chance of surviving, in reasonable prosperity, rather than fighting on to the last pathetic, under-paid stormtrooper in the service of a Master who despises us as much as he despises the Rebels."

 _Oh, well,_ thought Piett, _I suppose everyone's got to take a stand sometime. What can it hurt? I've been expecting to die every day, anyway._

"My Lord," he said, getting up from his chair, "I will join you."

Vader stood as well. _Now this,_ Piett thought, _is probably where he strangles me ..._

"No, Admiral," came the amused, deep voice, "it is not where I strangle you. You may breathe easily. I am arranging a meeting of our Command Staff here on the Executor at 2000 hours, and I am to meet with the Rebel leaders on their flagship at 0900 tomorrow. I trust I may count on your support on both occasions?"

"Of course, My Lord."

"Good evening, then, Admiral. Welcome to the Rebellion."

* * *

 

Luke had slept badly. More accurately, he had not slept at all.

His father had arranged quarters for him on the Star Destroyer the evening before, after a meeting with the assembled captains of the Imperial Fleet, and then had retired to his "meditation chamber," whatever that was. Luke had hoped they might have a chance to talk, since there had been little time for that with Vader spending the day in negotiations with a mind-numbing array of officers. Luke was acutely conscious that the tentative peace holding the two fleets apart was due to his father alone. Vader's powers -- of persuasion, at least; Luke did not want to think of what other powers his father might be using -- were solely responsible for stopping thousands of beings from murdering each other. But it would take only one of those beings, he knew, to break the peace, and send them all into disaster.

And Luke could not stop thinking of the way this impossible day had started. His muscles still ached from the Emperor's assault, and from the immense power that had somehow -- he still could hardly believe that it had happened -- attacked the Emperor through him.

Alone in his borrowed quarters, Luke tried to feel that power again. He tried to call it back, and bring the energy once more surging out of his hands as it had done when he stood at his father's side. But there was no response.

He felt uneasy. The fear was lurking in Luke's mind that it had been the Dark Side working through him. He did not truly feel that it was; how could it have been, when all he felt as he fought had been love for his father, and a burning desire to help him?

 _All_ he felt? Well, no, all right, he was lying to himself. He had felt hatred for the Emperor, and fury at the Emperor's destructiveness and manipulations. But was that wrong? Had it been evil of him to feel that?

Cold dread crept through him. _Ben,_ he thought. _Yoda. Help me. Have I failed you? Have I done wrong? Guide me!_ But he got no answer.

And his father. What of him? Had he really changed? Luke's heart pounded faster at the thought. He wanted so much to speak with him! To -- just to spend time with him, to somehow make up for all the time they had never had. But he was still afraid.

Darth Vader belonged to the Dark Side. Perhaps this time he had fought for the Light. _Or perhaps,_ Luke thought, _he showed me how to fight for the Dark, without my even realising it._

With such thoughts to keep him company, Luke had spent the night writhing uncomfortably on the cabin's bunk, although it was, in fact, the most comfortable bed he had been in for months, if not years.

He was standing beside the viewing port, staring down at the retracted lightsaber he held in his hands, when the door's entry bell chimed. Luke had already made use of the sonic shower, and had also discovered that Imperial-issue razors made for a damn sight smoother shave than most razors the Rebels encountered. Well, Imperial-issue officers' razors, he suspected. This cabin was obviously in the officers' quarters, and had all the appropriate amenities. He sincerely doubted stormtroopers' razors were so effective.

Luke fastened the lightsaber back to his belt and crossed to the door. He pressed one of the buttons on the door's control panel, activating a viewscreen which was linked to the cabin's security camera.

Darth Vader appeared on the screen, standing motionless in the corridor. Luke fought down an instinctive jolt of fear. _Remember, Luke,_ he thought, _this is someone you're supposed to be_ happy _to see._ He pressed another button, and the door slid open.

"Luke," Vader greeted him. He did not ask whether Luke had slept well. Probably, considering the dark puffy blotches under Luke's eyes, there was no point.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" he asked instead.

"Uh -- no."

"There is an officers' dining room near the main bridge. I'll take you there."

Luke hurried along beside his father, having to take two steps for each of Vader's. He tried to ignore the surprised or hostile stares he received from the few crewmembers they passed in the corridors. No one dared to actually confront him, of course, not with Darth Vader striding along at his side.

Luke wondered how many of these men knew who he was. All of them, probably, after the emergency broadcast of yesterday.

 _Hello, everybody,_ he thought. _I'm the man who destroyed the first Death Star. Nice to meet you. Oh, shit, I really do not want to be here._

Vader did not speak again until they were seated at a gleaming metal dining table, and Luke was starting in on a vast plate of colourful fruit most of which he didn't recognise, but which made him suddenly realise he was famished. There were a few officers at another table, whose conversation had broken off abruptly when Vader and his son entered the room. The men quickly began speaking again, attempting somehow both to not look at the Dark Lord and his companion, and to not _look_ like they weren't looking.

Vader said quietly, "It doesn't require the Force, Luke, to see that you are troubled. Is there any way I can put you at ease?"

That was such a civil, and _human_ , question, that Luke was taken aback. He thought, _He really is my father. Not just my enemy._

Luke asked, hesitantly, "I was wondering about the fight yesterday. That power -- how did we do that? Or, how did you do it, I guess."

Vader shook his head. "It was not just my doing. I don't believe I would have survived the fight if you hadn't joined me."

Surprised pleasure washed over Luke at that statement. "But, it was so much stronger than anything I'd believed possible. I tried, last night," he added, with some embarrassment. "I couldn't make it happen again."

"I'm not surprised," said Vader, a hint of laughter in his voice. "I have never wielded power of that magnitude before, and I have been in this business somewhat longer than you have."

Luke blushed and looked quickly down at the plate of fruit.

His father told him, "It must have been our need that made such power possible. Certainly it will not be at our command -- not at least without a great deal more training, and perhaps not even then. Now," he went on, "tell me of your friends. No, don't look so worried. I'm not asking you to betray them. I merely think it would be useful if I knew something of the people I'm about to meet."

"Well ... " Luke began. "Ackbar and Mon Mothma, they've been the soul of this fight. They care for their people very strongly. They'll be willing to listen to you, if you can convince them this will really save lives -- and make those lives worth living. Madine, I don't know him that well, but I think he'll at least respect your military accomplishments. General Dodonna won't trust you very easily, but he's not here, so you'll have time to win the others over before you have to face him. He's half-way retired, anyway. Rieekan's not here either, but I guess he'll probably go with the consensus, whatever that is. I don't think Han Solo and Lando Calrissian are very likely to take to you ... "

"I imagine not," Vader agreed. "And what of your sister?"

Luke stopped with a piece of purple fruit halfway to his mouth. _Leia._ No, Leia was not going to be happy about this.

"Does she know about me?" Vader asked.

"Yes. But she's only just found out. I told her just before I left to find you. This isn't going to be easy for her."

 _Or for any of us, son,_ thought Vader. "I hope you've tried to reassure her as to my intentions," he said, "difficult though that must no doubt have been."

"I -- " and suddenly Luke felt horribly guilty. "I haven't spoken with her since this started."

Vader was silent. One of his hands, resting on the table, slowly closed into a fist. Luke realised, watching this, "You've got both your hands."

"Naturally. I wasn't going to remain lopsided, it detracted from my dignity. Don't change the subject, Luke. Why haven't you talked with her?"

"I -- I don't know," he said helplessly. "I -- guess I was afraid. That she wouldn't agree with me, that she wouldn't trust you."

Vader sighed. "You should have called her. She must be sick with worry." And then he thought, _What am I saying? This is disgusting. I've turned into a typical parent already. Any minute now, and I'll be giving him a curfew and scolding him for flying his x-wing too fast._

 _That is certainly enough parental chiding for now._ "Then we must both face the wrath of Leia this morning," he said. "Eat up, Luke. We have a peace conference to get to."


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

"This is insanity!" protested General Crix Madine.

Admiral Ackbar sighed. "You've said that already, General."

"I know I have!" Madine raged.

"It'll be fine, General," put in Lando Calrissian, with a confidence he most definitely did not feel. "We've got their shuttle monitored every step of the way. We'll know the second they try anything. All the Fighter squadrons are standing by. There's no way they're gonna take us by surprise."

Princess Leia turned toward them from the panel where she'd been studying the readings on the approaching Imperial shuttle. "We're reading only three life-forms aboard," she said, keeping her voice emotionless.

"There, General, you see -- " Ackbar began.

"That doesn't mean anything!" snapped Madine. "He could have that ship crammed with assassin droids! We're inviting him in so he can wipe out our senior officers at a single stroke!"

"I don't think he needs assassin droids for that," Han Solo snorted. "I mean, he does have the Death Star and twenty Star Destroyers." Madine whirled away from Han abruptly, and Han felt a moment's disappointment that the movement hadn't dislodged the general's toupee.

"Even Darth Vader would think twice about landing on an enemy ship if he intended treachery," pointed out Mon Mothma, Chief of State of the Rebel Alliance, her pale face looking more gaunt than usual from the tension of the past day. "Even with a shuttle full of assassin droids, he'd still be putting himself too much at risk."

"Hunh," grunted Madine, sullenly unconvinced.

"Admiral," called one of Ackbar's Mon Calamari officers, "the shuttle is approaching the landing bay. They're requesting clearance to dock."

The leaders of the Rebel Alliance looked unhappily at each other. At the far edge of the huge view port which dominated the bridge of the Mon Calamari cruiser, they could see the three-winged Imperial Shuttle, dropping gracefully out of sight as it headed toward their docking bay.

A great sigh shuddered through Admiral Ackbar's body. "Grant them clearance," he said. While Madine groaned theatrically and the others exercised remarkable restraint in not telling him to shut up, Ackbar took up a hand-held comlink, opening a channel to the officer who would have the dubious honour of welcoming Darth Vader on board the Rebel flagship.

"Lieutenant Toran, are your men ready?"

"Ready, sir."

"Remember, you are to make no hostile moves unless attacked. This is a _peace meeting_. You are sure your men understand that?"

"I'm sure, sir." Ackbar sighed again. _Poor Lieutenant Toran._ This was at least the fifth time Ackbar had repeated the same orders to her.

"Very good," Ackbar said. He closed the link and said to his companions, "Shall we proceed to the conference chamber?"

No one looked pleased at the prospect, but they nodded. Ackbar led the party from the bridge, followed by Mon Mothma, Lando, Madine, Leia and Han. Madine was scowling furiously.

Han held back slightly, touching Leia's hand and whispering, "If Madine says anything more about assassin droids, Vader won't need to kill him. I'll blast him myself."

"I don't know," muttered Leia. "He's a pain, all right, but I can't say I blame him. I think I agree with him."

"What, that Vader's taking his assassin droids out for a killing spree?"

"No, not about the assassin droids," she said impatiently. "I just -- I don't know." She smiled palely up at him. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

"Who doesn't?" Han asked.

In the conference chamber, most of which was taken up by an elongated oval table, the six Rebel leaders waited. Mon Mothma, pristine in her white robes, sat at one far end of the table, with Ackbar at her right and Madine at her left. Lando took the chair next to Ackbar, and sat, absently drumming his fingers on the table until he realised what he was doing and stopped. Leia sat down next to Madine, who managed to remove the scowl from his face long enough to smile at her. Han remained standing behind the chair at Leia's other side. He had an appalling urge to start chewing his fingernails, and jammed his hands into his pockets instead. Then the door swished open, and Han's stomach did an alarming somersault. He didn't dare to look at the others, but was sure they felt exactly as he did.

Two Rebel soldiers stepped through the door, positioning themselves at either side and standing at attention. They were followed into the room by the slim, black-clad Luke Skywalker, and Han heard Leia give a little gasp of relief. Luke cast Leia and Han an apologetic grimace which was probably meant to be a smile, then he bowed his head to Mon Mothma and the others. After a brief hesitation, he took his place standing behind one of the chairs at the other end of the table. Next into the chamber was a thin-faced, nervous-looking man in Imperial uniform, who also bowed slightly to the Rebel leaders. Like Luke, he stood behind one of the far chairs, leaving one chair ominously empty between them.

The intended occupant of the third chair strode into the room. The door whooshed shut behind him. It was a good thing they had all received strict orders not to bring any weapons, or Han would have reached for his blaster and fired, peace conference or no peace conference. Not that he thought it would have done him any good. He'd tried shooting Darth Vader before.

Vader paused just inside the conference chamber. One of the two guards, standing only inches away from Vader, began to sweat, but the Dark Lord was paying no attention to him. He was looking instead at Princess Leia.

Slowly, with the appearance of perfect calm, Leia stood, staring back at the Lord of the Sith. She was standing so close to Han that their sides touched, and Han could feel her shivering.

In the few seconds before anyone spoke, realisations tumbled over each other into Vader's mind. Gazing at Leia, he thought, _Why didn't I notice before how beautiful she is?_

Well, he had known she was attractive, in a vague sort of way, but he'd never paid much attention to her. Just an irritating little brat playing at politics, and too short for his tastes, anyway. But now ... now she was his irritating little brat. And she wasn't just playing at politics any more, she was a brilliant stateswoman with a glorious career ahead of her. And she was gorgeous. _Although,_ he admitted, _I suppose I'm biased in my opinions._

Leia was clearly intending to stand on her regal dignity. Her head was held high, her chin stubbornly set, her lips clamped together. Only her eyes seemed alive, and they threw out sparks of defiance.

She was not as calm as she looked, of course. Vader could see her fists trembling slightly, and he could feel the tightly controlled fear and anger that enveloped her. Then he realised, with an abrupt jump in his own stress level, that the expression on her face was precisely the look his late wife used to get when steeling herself for some conflict with him.

Leia's features, he decided as he studied her, were not that similar to Shura's, although her hair and eyes, he thought now, were much the same. But with that look on her face, she seemed almost identical.

_I am a fool, not to have seen it before._

_Of course, one does not generally expect that a political opponent whom one is persecuting will turn out to be the daughter one never knew existed._

"Lord Vader," Leia greeted him coldly, her voice as taut as the aspect of her face.

"Princess Leia," Vader responded. And he thought, _Has any other man had such a poor start at getting to know his children? How does one build a trusting relationship when one has destroyed one's daughter's planet -- well, stood by and let the planet be destroyed, anyhow, which I'm sure she thinks is bad enough -- and had her submitted to a mind-probe? Not to mention, of course, torturing the man she loves and turning him over to a bounty hunter, trying to kill her brother, etc., but let's not go into that._

Belatedly, Mon Mothma stood and inclined her head civilly to Vader. "Lord Vader," she said. "Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat."

"Thank you. I thank you all for agreeing to meet with me."

Vader crossed to the seat left open for him. Standing with his hands on the back of the chair, he said, "You know Commander Skywalker, of course. May I present Admiral Grigori Piett, my second-in-command." Assorted Rebel leaders nodded to Piett; then Vader and his two companions took their seats.

Mon Mothma introduced her own companions. "General Lando Calrissian, Admiral Ackbar, General Crix Madine, Princess Leia Organa, General Han Solo. And I am Mon Mothma." She sat as well, followed a moment later by Leia, and then by Han, who sat glowering belligerently at Vader.

"Luke," Vader said, "you are better placed than the rest of us to understand both sides in this meeting. Perhaps you could begin by explaining what has brought us here."

Luke swallowed. He'd known Vader was going to ask him that, they'd discussed it, but he still felt incapable of explaining anything. He felt like a traitor, too, with his friends turning those hostile stares on him. He desperately wished he were sitting on the other side of the room. He nodded. "I know what's happening must be hard to accept, for all of us," he said. Damn, that sounded inadequate! _Just stick to the facts, Luke,_ he thought, _before you make more of a fool of yourself than you already have._

"Yesterday," he said, "I was taken prisoner and brought before the Emperor, on the Death Star. The Emperor had a proposition for me. He wanted me to join him." Luke caught a doubtful glance from Han, and realised with embarrassment that Han must be thinking something along the lines of, "Yeah right, like the Emperor really needs to join forces with the farm boy from Tatooine." Forging on, Luke explained, "He knew of my training with the Force, and thought that with further development of my powers, I could be useful to him. I refused to join him, and --" _and how do I describe what happened next? "He began shooting me with lightning bolts" doesn't quite get across the intensity of the experience!_ " _-_ \- and he decided that I was expendable. He began to torture me. He would have killed me. Lord Vader intervened." Luke saw his friends casting surprised looks at Vader, but he hurried on. "Lord Vader and the Emperor fought. Unfortunately the Emperor escaped. We believe that he teleported out of the throne room, into his shuttle, and fled the Death Star. It was then that Lord Vader contacted you, requesting a cease-fire." Luke turned to his father, thinking, _Please, let that be all the speaking I have to do today!_

Vader took over. "Luke is not telling quite all that happened. I may have saved his life, but in our fight with the Emperor, he also saved mine." There was a pause, while the Dark Lord seemed to collect his thoughts. "The events of yesterday forced me to face concerns that I had held for some time. You all know," he said, steadily, "that I have served the Emperor for many years. Some of you may see me as the face of the Empire. But in recent years, I have begun to feel the same doubts as many of you have felt since the Empire's foundation. The Emperor's sanity is toppling. His megalomania has taken him too far, and your Rebellion is the natural response to his lunacy. The Empire will perish, with the Alliance destroying it from without and degeneracy dismantling it from within. This second Death Star is only the most obvious symptom of the Emperor's inability to face reality." Vader gazed at each of the representatives of the Rebellion in turn. "To you," he said, "the Empire must seem only a vast, faceless horde, which flings opponents at you as swiftly as you can kill them. I have seen other facets of the Empire. I have seen the devastation caused by your heroic exploits, but worse, I have seen the demoralisation that is inevitable in a conscript army, in which proper training and support systems are neglected in a mad scramble to build bigger weapons, terrorise more star systems, and convince the galaxy that the Empire is invincible -- when, in fact, it is steadily collapsing."

Mon Mothma said, "It has taken you long enough to face these doubts of yours, Lord Vader."

"Yes," he said, seemingly unoffended by her interjection, "it has. Power is never easy to give up. So long as I was not suffering, it was a simple matter to ignore those who were. But yesterday I had to make a choice. Now I cannot turn back. The Emperor will not forgive me, nor would I wish him to. I must either become a fugitive from his vengeance, or I must take a stand against him." He paused again. "I wish to join you," he said. "I realise this will not be easy. You will not wish to welcome the enemy into your midst, and my presence among you may seem more trouble than it is worth. But I assure you, it is worth the trouble. I do not come into this bargain alone." He turned to Piett. "Admiral Piett," he said politely, "if you please."

Piett stood, without making any sudden moves that might distress the armed guards at the door, and removed from his breast pocket two recording disks. He crossed to the other end of the table, handing one of the disks to Mon Mothma. "Ma'am," Piett said. "These are the specifications and crew manifests of the Imperial ships stationed at Endor, and this," he handed her the second disk, "is the petition of the officers who wish to join the Rebel Alliance."

Piett was conscious of all the Rebels gaping at him, and he certainly didn't blame them; everyone involved in this was going to be doing a lot of open-mouthed staring for a long time to come. He continued, as if six people weren't staring at him in shock, "Twenty Star Destroyers were sent to Endor. Two were destroyed in the battle yesterday. There are still eighteen, which will become the property of the Rebellion if you accept Lord Vader's proposals. With the Star Destroyers, of course, comes all of their weaponry and fighter complement, along with each Destroyer's assault troop vehicles and other craft. You'll find these detailed in the first of those disks." He looked at Vader, who nodded, and Piett returned to his seat.

"What are your proposals, Lord Vader?" asked Admiral Ackbar.

"I wish to join you," Vader repeated, "and I will place myself under your command. As you will see from the second disk, the commanding officers of sixteen of our Star Destroyers wish to accompany me. I do not propose to compel anyone to switch sides. You have no need for reluctant followers. All officers and men must choose freely, and the first of my demands is that those who do not wish to join the Alliance be given safe conduct out of this system. The Star Destroyers will remain at your disposal, but I believe we can spare enough transport ships for those who do not choose to join us. My second demand" -- Vader had noticed that Madine winced in annoyance when he used the word "demand," so he took particular pleasure in using it again -- "is that all those who do join the Alliance be granted equal opportunity within your ranks. I realise it will take some time to integrate our forces; that is unavoidable. But the attempt must be made. Above all, none of those who join you are to be prosecuted for actions which took place when they served the Empire. If we are to work together, we must put the past behind us, impossible though that may now seem."

Leia put in sweetly, a hint of danger lurking in her tone, "This freedom from prosecution is to extend to you as well, Lord Vader?"

"Naturally," he said. "It would be expecting too much of the most idealistic man to ask that he give his all for a government which will then put him on trial. I am not the most idealistic man. But when I say I will do something, I do it. I say that I will serve the Alliance faithfully and honourably."

Leia's eyebrows leapt up her forehead. "Honourably," she echoed, in an ironic whisper.

Mon Mothma said, "Thank you for your proposals, Lord Vader. We will consider them carefully. You understand that this is not a decision we can take lightly. As valued as your assistance would be, there may be others on whom we rely who would desert us when it became known that you were among our ranks."

Leia asked, her voice still soft with that dangerous sweetness, "How does a Rebellion which claims to champion the rights of all sentient beings justify its alliance with a tyrant and murderer?"

Admiral Ackbar shifted uneasily in his chair. Mon Mothma closed her eyes briefly, and Han began, "Uh, Leia ..." only to be silenced by a glare from the princess.

Vader's gaze focused solely on Leia. "I have killed many," he said. "I do not deny my actions or defend them. I do, however, object to being accused by those who have committed the same actions. Admiral Piett," he asked casually, "I wonder if you recall how many letters of condolence you have written to the families of stormtroopers killed by Princess Leia?"

This was not exactly a fair question. Vader knew full well that the letters of condolence were written automatically, in a standard format, as soon as the casualty reports came in, with a computer-generated version of Piett's signature added to the end of them. Perversely, Vader's question made Piett feel guilty, wishing that he'd composed every letter personally. _If I had, though, I'd have had time for nothing else._ Blushing, and angry with himself for doing so, Piett said brusquely, "I don't remember the exact numbers, My Lord. It was, of course, always impossible to be sure which troopers were killed by the princess and which by her companions."

Fair question or not, it had the desired effect. Princess Leia blushed deeply, and looked quickly away from Vader. Tears welled up in her eyes.

In the uncomfortable silence, it was General Madine who jumped to her defence. "Your analogy is false and unjust, Lord Vader," he snapped. "Princess Leia is no murderer. It was war."

"Yes," said Vader. "It was. But there need no longer be war between us."

"Lord Vader," said Lando Calrissian, cutting off the growth of another uneasy pause, "please don't be offended at what I'm going to say. But, frankly, how can we trust you? Some of us have had dealings with you before. Your traps have always been well thought out. How do we know this isn't another of them?"

"What do you perceive I am trying to lure you into?" Vader inquired.

"If we accept you and your fleet, you could destroy us easily. Wait till we lead you to our headquarters, then wipe it out and the Rebellion with it."

"Calrissian's right," Madine said, predictably.

"You may place your own crews on board the Star Destroyers," Vader said, as calm as ever. "Your concern is reasonable, but if there is enough integration of our fleets, the risk of such a betrayal would be minimised."

"Lord Vader," came the guttural tones of Admiral Ackbar, "I think we must have other similar concerns. Even if we were not at immediate risk of attack, how could we know that you and your men were not spying upon us? It would be very simple for each of our moves to be betrayed to the Emperor."

"You are correct, Admiral. The only way to prove our loyalty is to try us. When we have fought at your side against the Emperor, perhaps then you may begin to trust us. But let me say this. Once you have accepted our allegiance, it would be in none of our interests to see the Emperor retain power. Palpatine is not a reasonable man. He is not easy on those he sees as traitors, even if they subsequently assist him. Every man who leaves the Imperial forces to join you faces torture and execution if he falls back into the Emperor's hands."

"Yes," said Leia, "unless this was planned by the Emperor all along. Why should you suddenly care for oppressed worlds and butchered stormtroopers? Your change of heart is very convenient. Convenient and not quite believable, unless you're acting under Palpatine's orders."

"Leia," began Luke, "you don't understand -- "

"It is a valid point," said Mon Mothma, cutting across Luke's protest. "I am sorry, Lord Vader, but I don't see how we can take the risk of trusting you. Too many lives depend on our decision."

Rather than answering directly, Vader turned and looked at Luke. Luke hesitated, then nodded firmly. This also they had discussed. It was time for the final argument. _Leia,_ thought Luke, _I'm sorry. But someday you'll forgive me, and forgive him too._

"I will not betray the Rebellion," Vader said quietly, turning back to the Rebels. "I cannot. You ask me to explain my change of heart. There is an explanation, and it means that even if you reject me today, I will not raise my hand against the Alliance again."

_Now what?_ wondered Piett. This was an aspect of Vader's plan that hadn't been discussed with him. Piett thought, _If he doesn't go into politics, maybe Vader could become an actor._ That honest, strong voice, with a hint of emotion trembling at the edges of it, was almost irresistibly convincing. It certainly didn't sound like Darth Vader.

Darth Vader said, "Luke Skywalker is my son."

Admiral Piett felt his jaw drop once again. Across the table, Admiral Ackbar, Mon Mothma and General Madine jumped to their feet, with startled exclamations. General Calrissian, Princess Leia and General Solo remained seated, all three looking very grim.

Vader continued, "I did not know of his existence until the Battle of Yavin. When I did learn who he was, my hope was originally to bring him into the service of the Emperor. I tried to convince him to join the Empire. I failed. As I formulated my arguments to Luke, their weaknesses became more and more clear to me. I had nothing to offer him. The Empire offered nothing. Then, yesterday, I had to choose between my Emperor and my son." A touch of bitter amusement entered his voice. "You may not think me an ideal parent. Very well, I am not. I am not even a 'good' man, and discovering fatherhood will probably not bring out any lurking goodness from within me. But it was my own child dying before me. I could not let him die."

No one spoke. There was no sound, except for the steady wheeze of Vader's mechanized breathing. It was Vader, at last, who spoke again. "No parents want their children to be ashamed of them," he said, "still less to hate them. Your best guarantee of my loyalty is here. I want my family back. I want the chance to be part of their lives, and not as an enemy. If I betray you, I lose that chance forever. That will not happen."

Vader turned to his son and held out one black-gloved hand to Luke. Luke, without hesitation this time, clasped his father's hand. He was looking at Leia as he did so, and as his grasp tightened on Vader's hand, Luke saw tears escape from his sister's eyes.

* * *

 

Admiral Piett was beginning to see why no one had made peace with the Rebels before. It involved too much talking.

This was the fifth meeting he had attended that day, in his new and rather peculiar-feeling role as Lord Vader's sidekick. Vader and Piett were standing in the briefing room off the bridge of the _Executor_ , staring down at the blueprints and readouts on the holographic projection table while various old and new colleagues presented reports, questions and complaints.

One Rebel captain, a podgy, sandy-haired man with a nose like a Thalaxian slug, was saying, "But, wouldn't it be wiser to keep the Death Star operational? It would give us a great advantage ... "

Standing across the briefing table from him, the leader of the x-wing squadron that had been assigned to the Executor snapped, "After all we've gone through to destroy that thing? You want us to _keep_ it?"

Vader queried, "What exactly would you have us do with the Death Star, captain? Turn it into a holiday resort?"

The captain looked taken aback, obviously trying to decide whether or not Darth Vader was capable of making a joke. "Uh, I just meant, with all the technology that's gone into it, surely it could be useful to us -- "

"There are crews of technicians engaged in removing those parts that are recyclable and easily portable," Piett put in, telling the Captain something he should have known already.

Vader added, smoothly baiting the Rebel captain, "I'm surprised that you would think of keeping the Death Star in use, captain. I should have thought it was a symbol of the Empire with which the Rebellion would not wish to be identified."

While the confused captain struggled to think of something to say, Vader went on, "Lieutenant, what is the status of the crew transfers?" Before the lieutenant he had addressed could answer, Vader suddenly held up one hand. His stance had become alert and tense, as he seemed to listen to something none of the others could hear.

"Something is wrong," he murmured, almost to himself. Then, without warning, he turned and strode from the briefing room.

The officers who remained around the projection table looked at each other helplessly. Someone gave a nervous laugh, which made Piett wish that he could do Vader's strangling trick.

The x-wing commander stared in the direction Vader had gone, then asked Piett, "Does he always do that?"

His designation as Vader's second-in-command meant that the Rebels were constantly turning to Piett as a Darth Vader expert. For the sake of the new alliance, he had thus far managed to restrain himself from telling them any horror stories.

"No," said Piett, "he usually doesn't walk out on meetings." _Of course,_ he added silently, _he usually doesn't_ have _meetings, he just strangles people. But I don't really think you want me to share that with you just now._

"Well," said the Rebel captain who'd suggested retaining the Death Star, his voice conveying disdain for Lord Vader and his eccentric habits, "shall we continue our meeting? We can fill His Lordship in on any decisions if he deigns to rejoin us."

"No," Piett said flatly. "If Vader's worried about something, we should be, too." He turned from the table and followed Vader onto the bridge. Out of curiosity, the others trailed after him.

Vader was standing behind two crewmen who were seated at a tracking screen. The crewmen were moving swiftly, calling up a rapid series of readings and projections, and seemed on the brink of panic -- as was only natural with Darth Vader looming over them.

The object they were monitoring was the Death Star. And, as he crossed to stand beside Vader, Piett realised exactly what the problem was.

"They're powering up their hyperdrive," Piett whispered.

"Yes," said Vader, his dark tone implying a great deal of suffering for whoever was responsible. "Attempt to contact them," he ordered one of the crewmen.

The crewman obeyed. "They're jamming our transmission, My Lord," he reported hoarsely.

From another of the bridge's control panels, a crewmember called, "Lord Vader, message coming in for you from Admiral Ackbar. I'm routing it to your position." Seconds later, the monitor at the top left corner of the tracking screen lit up, and Ackbar's orange, bulging-eyed visage appeared. Piett wondered if he was getting better at reading Mon Calamari facial expressions, or if it was just a logical assumption to think that the Admiral was looking stressed.

"Lord Vader! The Death Star's engines -- "

"I know. It should take them another six to seven minutes to prepare their hyperdrive generator."

"Do you know who's behind this -- ?"

"Whoever it is, it is our responsibility to stop them."

"We don't have the time to launch an assault -- "

"Nor would we wish to wipe out your technicians aboard," Vader reminded him. "Be calm, Admiral, they will not get far. I will ensure that we can track them; I suggest you move the fleet away before they jump into hyperspace." Switching to another channel in the middle of a splutter from Ackbar, Vader stated, "Hangar Twelve, this is Darth Vader. Prepare a TIE-bomber for immediate launch."

He began striding toward the lift. As he passed the Rebel x-wing commander, Vader said to him, "You're with me. Can your squadron be launched immediately?"

"Uh -- yes, My Lord."

"See to it. Start launch procedures and summon the pilots to meet us at the launching bay."

Paling visibly, the shortish, dark-haired man froze for a moment, then he rapidly sent the required messages. He cut off the transmission as one of his pilots started squawking out a demand for explanation. Luckily, they had only arrived on the _Executor_ half and hour before. Most of the squadron were probably with their ships already, still grumblingly seeing to their x-wings' instalment in hangars that had been designed for TIE-fighters. Well, now they'd just have to un-install them.

_Guess we're getting this alliance off to an action-packed start!_ he thought. He hurried to catch up with Vader.

The Dark Lord directed the lift to take them to the launch bay. "Commander Antilles, isn't it?" he then asked his companion.

Wedge Antilles gulped. "That's right, My Lord." _He must have one hell of a memory,_ Wedge thought. _We were only introduced once, and he must have met three hundred people today. At least._

"You were at the Battle of Yavin. In Luke's squadron, I believe."

"Uh, yes, that's right." _And you nearly shot me down. What happy memories we could share together._

"I am going to attach a homing beacon to the Death Star," Vader informed him. "Unfortunately, our missile-mounted beacons must be launched at very close range. Unless you have more long-range models --?"

"No, My Lord, sorry." _Actually, we don't have any missile-mounted homing beacons at all._

"Very well. I will launch the beacon from one of our bombers; I count on your squadron to provide back-up."

When they reached the launching bay, the scene was predictably chaotic. Vader headed straight for his waiting bomber, while Wedge was surrounded by loudly protesting pilots.

"Don't ask any questions!" Wedge yelled. "The Death Star's going into Hyperspace in five minutes; we've got to attach a homing beacon. Lord Vader's going to launch the beacon; we're going to cover him. That's all; into your ships now!"

Most of the pilots, used to acting on very short notice, scattered toward their x-wings. One held back, asking, "Er, sir, are the Death Star's weapons operational?"

"We'll find out, won't we?" snapped Wedge.

As Wedge scrambled into the pilot's seat, powered up the fighter and gave a distracted response to his astromech droid's burble of greeting, he heard over the comlink the voice of Darth Vader. Unbelievably, Vader seemed to be in conversation with the idiot pilot who'd asked about the Death Star's weapons.

Vader was saying dryly, "The Superlaser should be unable to target vessels this small, unless you sit still for it. Which I trust you will not."

Another of the x-wing pilots chimed in, "Great, so that just leaves a few thousand turbolasers and cannons."

"Ten thousand turbolaser batteries, and two thousand five hundred each of laser and ion cannons," Vader told him helpfully. "Although you may have taken out a few in your recent attack."

_Nice of him to mention that,_ thought Wedge. "Okay," Wedge broke in on the conversation, "so let's take out a few more!"

The vast door of the launch bay stood open before them. Vader's TIE-bomber was already rising toward it, probably a lot faster than safety specs encouraged.

_This is certainly the most sketchily-planned assault in history,_ Wedge thought, as he followed Vader out of the bay, with the other x-wings taking off all around him. He'd just have to rely on his men's experience and instincts, and hope it pulled them through this. Well, hopefully they wouldn't use their instincts too much, he amended that thought. Instinct, for instance, would tell them to shoot down the bomber ahead of them.

Wedge eyed the bomber with interest as he zoomed along after it. It was a clumsy-looking thing, twice as broad as the usual TIE-fighters, with apparently two cockpits -- one, he guessed, for housing its various missiles. Vader sure wasn't flying it clumsily, though. And damn, it was fast! Too fast. They weren't going to be giving Vader much cover if he completely out-ran them. Wedge thought, with sudden excitement, _Hey, when we get back I could have a look inside that thing!_

He was beginning to see a whole new dimension to this crazy alliance. So what if they all had to argue a lot and sit through innumerable meetings. The entire Imperial Fleet -- well, okay, most of it -- was suddenly theirs. No more scrounging for equipment, no more constructing ships out of spare parts that didn't go together. He saw an entrancing vista of Star Destroyers and bombers and AT-AT walkers -- they ought to do something with the walkers, he thought, to distinguish them from those that still belonged to the Empire. Paint big smiles on their snouts, maybe, or moustaches. And the Star Destroyers. Maybe they should paint "Fuck off, Palpatine" along the tops of them.

Of course, he and his x-wing were going to be painted all over the Death Star if he didn't start paying attention to what he was doing. He felt a familiar sinking in his stomach as he eyed their rapidly approaching target.

Every time he attacked this thing -- and he seemed to be doing so on a regular basis -- he realised that he'd blocked out of his mind just how huge a monstrosity it actually was. This one was even bigger than the one they'd fought at Yavin, apparently, but Wedge couldn't tell; he just always looked at it and thought _big,_ and then, _oh, shit, we are dead._

So far, the Death Star didn't seem to be reacting to their approach; maybe they were too small to bother with. That, of course, was wishful thinking. Just as the thought passed through Wedge's mind, a turbolaser battery sprang into life and spat out flame at Vader's bomber.

The bomber swerved, then sprang away vertically to avoid a shot from one of the two thousand five hundred laser cannons. Vader continued a dizzying course, twisting away from countless shots that seemed to pass only inches from him, and occasionally taking the trouble to fire back.

Wedge was inside the Death Star's range now. He went in firing, targeting an ion cannon and grinning as it disappeared in a very satisfactory explosion. Wedge swooped after Vader's bomber, following a similar swerving course, and firing randomly at the batteries and cannons that they passed.

_How close does Vader need to get?_ He wondered.I _know he said this missile was short-range, but really! He's just showing off now, isn't he?_ For an instant Wedge really thought Vader was going to collide with the Death Star. At the last possible second the bomber veered away again.

Wedge heard Vader's voice through his comlink. "Got it!" At that moment the Dark Lord sounded very human, hardly menacing at all. Wedge was about to yell back congratulations, when Vader's voice came more urgently, "Pull back! It's jumping into Hyperspace. Pull back!"

Wedge obeyed. His x-wing lurched away from the Death Star, the astromech droid protesting wildly in a series of electronic squeals. And then something hit them.

At first it felt like the x-wing was being shoved by a gigantic hand. Then the force changed direction and the hand reached out and grabbed them, pulling them back.

The x-wing shuddered. Wedge was convinced it was going to break apart. _Or else I'm going to explode first,_ Wedge thought, as an agonising pressure built up inside his skull.

And the hand let go.

The x-wing spiraled into an out-of-control dive, and Wedge struggled to bring it back on course.

_That can't have been good for the Endor Moon's ecosystems,_ Wedge realised distractedly, _having something that big go into Hyperspace from orbit. They're probably having tidal waves and earthquakes and Firelord knows what else._

Back in control, Wedge was hit by nausea and a fit of the shivers. _Right, that's it,_ he thought. _I'm retiring, right now. Never setting one foot into space again._

"Are you still with us, Commander?"

It almost didn't feel weird any more to realise that the voice coming through his comlink belonged to Darth Vader. "Yeah," Wedge gasped out. "You in one piece?"

"Just," Vader replied. "I believe your squadron has come through intact. Impressive flying, I congratulate you."

"Yeah. You too!" As he piloted his x-wing back toward the Star Destroyer Executor, Wedge realised there was a huge, stupid grin on his face. The Dark Lord of the Sith had complimented his squadron! Now there was something to write home about. And he was definitely going to convince the Dark Lord to let him have a look at the innards of that TIE-bomber.

* * *

 

"There! You see! I told you he'd come back!"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, kid, you told us."

"And you said he was trying to run away with the Death Star," Luke said scornfully.

"Okay, okay, you don't have to sound so smug about it." But, reflected Han, Luke did have a right to feel smug, and who could blame him? That was Luke's father who'd just pulled off the craziest bit of piloting that Han had ever seen performed by anyone but Han himself. The kid had every right to feel proud of him. Although, Han thought, it must be pretty tough trying to decide whether to feel proud or to feel suicidally depressed that his father was Darth Vader.

They were in the circular briefing room below the bridge of the Mon Calamari flagship. The holograph table had been linked to pick up the images on the main viewscreen, and they had been anxiously following Vader and Red Squadron's race to the Death Star.

Actually, Luke, Han and Admiral Ackbar had been following it. Leia had been sitting on one of the benches that circled the briefing room's perimeter, chewing at her thumbnails and refusing to meet anyone's gaze. She now managed a very pallid smile for Luke's benefit, then went back to scowling at the floor.

"Admiral," one of Ackbar's officers informed him, handing Ackbar a readout pad, "the _Executor_ has sent us the co-ordinates of the Death Star's location. They must have come out of Hyperspace almost as soon as they went in."

Ackbar opened a channel to the Executor. "Admiral Piett," Ackbar greeted the now familiar face that appeared on the screen. "You're reading that the Death Star has come out of Hyperspace?"

"That's right. We think the Death Star must be damaged. They should never have attempted the jump to Hyperspace with the station only half complete. We plan to follow them in the Executor; if you approve, of course. If you could perhaps send one or two cruisers to accompany us ...?"

"Very well. I'll notify the _Hope_ and the _Shador_ to join you." Ending the transmission, Ackbar said wearily, "Don't start, princess. You and General Madine will tell me it's a trap; that the Death Star and the _Executor_ will turn on our ships and destroy them. I will take full responsibility, but I don't care to argue about this again."

"I wasn't going to say anything," Leia said flatly.

Han looked at her with worry. Ever since the peace meeting with Vader, Leia had seemed to close out the rest of the galaxy, emerging occasionally to make some cynical comment or suggest that Vader was betraying them, then disappearing back into her sullen contemplation. It wasn't the Leia they knew at all, and Han didn't like it. Leia could certainly be a bitch, but at least you knew where you stood when she was screaming at you. This depression, Han didn't know how to deal with.

* * *

 

On the Rebel cruiser _Shador_ , Captain Bailey received his orders and wished that he could stop the palms of his hands from sweating.

The _Shador_ had only barely avoided being annihilated by the Death Star's Superlaser in the battle two days ago, when the Liberty was destroyed. Bailey had no desire to give the Superlaser another shot.

He looked grimly at Commander Luxar, the Imperial who'd been assigned as his new second-in-command. They'd been getting along fairly well, and had shared a very enjoyable dinner last night, at which they had both drunk too much while reminiscing about student life at the Academy. Bailey had left before graduation to join the Rebellion, while Luxar had gone straight from graduation to a post on the Emperor's flagship, but they found that their Academy experiences had been much the same. This still did not stop Bailey from worrying that his new friend Luxar might be about to blast him in the back.

"The _Executor_ has sent us these jump co-ordinates," reported Luxar. He handed over the figures so that Bailey could assure himself the treacherous Imperials weren't trying to make them jump into a planet, or straight into the Death Star.

Bailey studied the figures, and glanced over the work of the crewmen who were entering in the hyperdrive calculations. "Thank you. Inform the _Executor_ we are ready to jump on their mark."

The order came. Bailey watched the forward viewscreen as the stars melted into the familiar gleaming trails of Hyperspace. The jump was ludicrously short. Almost immediately, they were back in normal space, and staring at a scene of devastation which emerged on their screen.

"Will you look at that," Luxar breathed in awe. "That piece of junk was supposed to save the Empire?"

The Death Star was falling apart before their eyes. The unfinished sections of the station had obviously been unable to withstand the pressures of Hyperspace. One half of the huge globe was literally crumbling away, massive chunks of the hull and the station's metal skeleton tearing loose with ponderous slowness and then drifting lazily into space. Bailey hoped there had not been anyone in those sections of the Death Star. It was a concept he did not want to think about.

* * *

 

The bridge of the _Executor_ was also peopled by men who were staring at the disintegrating Death Star. A re-assigned Rebel officer wondered aloud, "What idiot thought he could take that thing into Hyperspace?"

"Jerjerrod," came the angry voice of Darth Vader, almost in a whisper.

"I beg your pardon, My Lord?" asked Piett, standing next to him.

"Jerjerrod," said Vader. "That is the idiot in question."

"Lord Vader!" a crewman yelped. "They're targeting and powering up the superlaser!"

Vader made no reply. He seemed to have tuned them out again. Nervously Piett said, "Take evasive action," hoping that Vader would not be aggrieved with him for daring to give an order. It was, after all, the obvious order to give.

"There is no danger," Vader told Piett in a now remarkably calm, conversational tone. "He has merely made another mistake."

The _Executor_ soared into a rapidly altered course. The cannon well of the superlaser was suddenly ablaze with light, as the eight beams came together in the laser's central crystal. The superlaser fired. And the well surrounding it started to collapse.

The blast shot wildly away, far from the _Executor_ and its two companions. A few isolated cheers were heard on the bridge of the Executor, but most of the crew were watching in overwhelmed silence. The devastation was spreading, as if the Death Star were being devoured by some invisible monster. Vast chunks of the station broke loose as the monster began to munch on the Superlaser's well.

"Attempt to contact them," Vader ordered, a sardonic note to his voice. "Ask if they require assistance."

Almost immediately, the Death Star responded. A disheveled, wild-eyed officer appeared on the screen, his hair soaking with blood that then trickled down one side of his face.

"Lord Vader!" he gasped. "Thank the gods!"

If Vader found it amusing that an officer was pleased to hear from him for once, he did not comment. "Captain Faren," he replied, and only then did Piett recognise in this battered figure the normally dapper young Chief of Station Security. "What is your situation?"

"Massive hull breaches in the eastern hemisphere. We've got the western hemisphere sealed off, but I don't know how long it will hold. Can you spare any transports? There's still a lot of crew on board -- "

"We will see to it immediately, captain. If you can guarantee that the transports will not be fired upon ... "

"Already taken care of sir," Faren reported, bitter satisfaction on his face. "Commander Jerjerrod seized control of the command centre. He'd sealed it off and we didn't have time to break through, but we've now flooded the command centre with sion gas. He and his renegades should be out cold. I -- " the security captain seemed suddenly to remember he was talking to Darth Vader. "I apologise that we weren't in time to stop him from firing the Superlaser ... "

"Think nothing of it, captain," said Vader. "The transports will arrive at Hangar Bays Four through Six. My shuttle will dock at Bay Four; I will see you there shortly."

"Yes, My Lord," Faren answered, clearly wondering how long he would survive past Vader's arrival.

As Vader's shuttle settled onto the deck of Hangar Bay Four, Faren and twelve stormtroopers hurried toward it. They had barely time to salute before Vader was striding past them, and they had to scurry along in his wake.

"Your report, captain," Vader commanded. "What has been happening on this station?" His voice expressed disdain, as if the occurrences on the station were barely worth his attention.

Faren said angrily, "As you know, My Lord, Commander Jerjerrod was in charge of the station's evacuation. He freed the Emperor's guards when they were being moved from their holding cell to a transport, and together they seized the command centre. They're the ones who took us into Hyperspace. Some of my men were killed in the guards' escape," he added. From Faren's tone, it seemed that the security captain would cheerfully disembowel Jerjerrod and the Imperial guards with his bare hands.

Vader was in full agreement with that sentiment. "I believe," he said, "that Commander Jerjerrod has outlived his usefulness." T

hey reached the entrance to the Command Centre, where a team of stormtroopers were engaged in slicing though the reinforced doors with a high definition blaster cannon. Conveniently, the door's sealing gave way just as Vader approached. The door had barely finished sliding open before Vader stepped through it.

By now the sion gas had dissipated. Six of the crimson-robed Imperial guards were still sprawled on the floor or at various command posts, while two guards and Commander Jerjerrod were dizzily starting to struggle to their feet.

Jerjerrod looked up, trying to blink the haze out of his eyes, and saw Darth Vader standing above him. Fully awake now, Jerjerrod looked around desperately, only to find that he and the Emperor's guards were at the receiving ends of the twelve stormtroopers' blaster pistols.

"Commander," Vader remarked, "I'm disappointed in you. I had thought you might have enough common sense to emerge from this situation alive."

He was doomed anyway, Jerjerrod knew, so he might as well say what he thought. "Traitor," he snarled. "Damned, filthy traitor! The Emperor created you, you bastard. He made you everything you are. And you dare turn your back on him! He'll make you suffer, Dark Lord," Jerjerrod continued, sneering out Vader's title. "He'll tear you apart piece by piece, you warped mechanical freak."

"Perhaps." Vader's voice was chill but undisturbed. "Unfortunately, commander, you will not be alive to witness it."

The Dark Lord knelt down beside the still half-prostrate Jerjerrod. "I'm curious. At our meetings, I felt no sense of your intention to mutiny. Was this unplanned, or have you more skill at shielding your thoughts than I realised? Not that it matters. I merely like to know something of the men I kill."

Jerjerrod stared. Some sense of just how horrible his situation could be started to creep through him. He finally managed to admit, "It wasn't planned. Just before we seized the station, I received a message from the Emperor. He promised me immunity and promotion if I brought the Death Star to him."

"Where is he?" The question was not only asked in words, but probed straight into Jerjerrod's mind.

"Coruscant. He's back on Coruscant."

"Ah. Well, commander, His Imperial Majesty has been known to have contact with the spirits of the departed. You may, then, be able to apologise for your failure in person."

Vader stood. "Captain Faren. I believe you are of sufficient rank to have a code for this station's self destruct program?"

Faren smiled in vicious enjoyment. "Yes, My Lord."

"If you would care to do the honours." Vader gestured to the central control panel. "Will a fifteen minute count-down be sufficient for evacuating all remaining personnel?"

"I think so, My Lord. The place may have collapsed by then, anyway."

"Very well. Fifteen minutes, then."

Faren crossed to the panel, initiating the self-destruct sequence and entering his activation code. "My Lord?"

Vader joined him, and added his own code to the sequence.

"We need a third code, My Lord," Faren reminded him. "Shall I contact Admiral Piett?"

"No need. We have another command officer among us. Commander Jerjerrod," he said, without turning from the panel, "would you be good enough to join us?"

Jerjerrod, still crouched on the floor, goggled at him in horror. "You're mad."

"Come, commander, your code. It's impolite of you to keep us waiting."

Vader turned to face him. Jerjerrod gasped as the cold, probing touch delved into his mind again. Vader's gleaming mask, those huge reflective eyes that revealed nothing, were all that Jerjerrod could see, looming both outside Jerjerrod's own eyes and behind them. With cool deliberation, Lord Vader was sifting through Jerjerrod's mind. Jerjerrod squeezed his eyes shut, tried to resist, to think of something else, anything else, anything but the code ...

"Thank you, commander," came Vader's amused tone. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

Vader turned back to the panel, and entered the third self-destruct code.

"Self destruct initiated," a message on the screen announced. The lighting in the room suddenly switched to red, as it would have done throughout the station. Unobtrusively, in the background, the count-down began.

Jerjerrod was still staring, stunned with disbelief.

"Sir?" asked one of the stormtroopers, gesturing with his blaster at one of the now awake, but still groggy Imperial guards. "What do we do with this lot?" Faren glanced questioningly at Vader.

"I'm sure the transports are over-crowded already," Vader said mildly. "We don't need to burden ourselves with them."

"No, My Lord." With a smile of immense personal gratification, Faren drew his own blaster pistol and fired point blank at the nearest Imperial guard. Faren watched the man collapse, a blackened hole smoking in his chest, then nodded at his stormtroopers. Obediently they mowed the remaining guards down.

"Do what you can to assist in the evacuation, captain," Vader ordered. "The commander and I have some business to complete before I join you."

"Yes, My Lord!" Faren and the stormtroopers departed, the officer wistfully wishing that Vader had let him stay to watch. "

Now, commander," Vader's voice purred. "You needn't look so terrified. I know how fond you are of this station. Being an understanding man, I'm going to let you remain on it."

Jerjerrod's eyes were widening farther than seemed physically possible. He had wet himself, but he didn't have to feel alone in his shame, since most of the Emperor's guards had relieved themselves as they died.

"Of course," Vader went on, ignoring Jerjerrod's discomfort, "in fifteen minutes -- I beg your pardon, fourteen -- you might contrive to countermand the self-destruct program. I am getting very tired of this Death Star, commander. So, you'll understand if I take steps to ensure that you do not delay its destruction."

Vader's hand barely moved. He made no move toward Jerjerrod. Vader slowly closed the fingers of his right hand toward each other, and heard a quiet little series of pops as each of the bones in Jerjerrod's right foot snapped in two. Jerjerrod screamed. He kept screaming, as Vader took care of the left foot in like manner, then moved on to the ankles and both legs. For insurance, Vader broke the bones in Jerjerrod's hands, wrists and arms as well, just in case the commander were inclined to drag himself to the control panel.

"Now," said Darth Vader, "I'm afraid I must be going. Do give my regards to the Emperor."

He was back on the bridge of the _Executor_ , and the last of the transports were safely away and out of range, when the Death Star exploded. Vader smiled to himself, appreciating the shimmering pattern of colours as the dying space station erupted. It really was a very good sight, and the ring of gases that escaped from the detonating Death Star made an attractive touch.

He wondered if Luke had taken the time to appreciate the beauty of it when he'd blown up the first Death Star. Probably not. And that thought made him chuckle quietly.

_Luke really won't be pleased if he learns of my little entertainment in the Command Centre, will he? But, who blew up a Death Star with 1,187,000 people on it -- give or take a few thousand -- and who blew up a Death Star with a full crew complement of one?_

_It all depends on your emotional state, of course. It's perfectly fine to blow up 1,187,000 people, if you don't hate them while you're doing it._

_Sure. And I have some lovely waterfront land on Tatooine to sell you._

Admiral Piett, standing next to him as usual, thought how very unnerving it was to hear Darth Vader laugh.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

He was helpless.

Nothing. There was nothing. Nothing but the loathsome machines, humming and whirring and clicking. Keeping him alive, when all he wanted was to escape.

He knew there was something left of him. When he concentrated, sending his consciousness out of what remained of his body, he could see that there was indeed a basically human form on the bed. It was barely visible amid all the wires, monitors, and random bits of machinery which he did not recognise, but only knew that he hated.

He could turn his head an inch to the left and an inch to the right. That was all the movement he was capable of.

They told him he wasn't paralysed. It was the treatment that necessitated keeping him immobile, while massive repairs went on at their pathetic, crawling pace. They told him a lot of things. They told him he would be fine. They told him he was lucky. They also told him, of course, that he'd never be able to breathe again without the help of a damned, bloody, fucking iron lung, that he might not be able to walk again, that even his heartbeat would have to be constantly monitored for the rest of his life. _Oh, yes,_ he thought, _very lucky._

He was starting to panic again. He could feel the familiar claustrophobic terror welling up inside him, making him want to scream or to cry or to kill someone.

They kept the room too hot. It was closing in on him in its thick, cloying warmth. It was going to crush him. He was going to be smashed under his own life-support devices. He managed a weak, choking sound that had been originally intended as a laugh. He felt dizzy from terror, but he knew that wasn't because he was hyperventilating. He couldn't hyperventilate any more. Couldn't even change the rate of his own breathing. He might be going mad with fear, but his breathing would still come in that hateful automated wheeze that he was so sick of listening to. If only it would change! Just a little faster, or a little slower. Anything, to stop him from going insane.

He fought to think of something else. If he focused hard enough, surely he could feel some hint that his body was still there.

Was that pain that he felt? He hoped it was, but he couldn't be sure. He could no longer tell what was actual pain, what was the drugs and the life-support, and what was just the hideous oblivion of feeling nothing.

_I've got to get out!_

He was furious now, and the fury was holding back the terror. The fury was something he knew he could use.

Slowly he managed to calm himself, but he did not let his anger go. All his thoughts were converging on the anger, honing it into something pure, concentrated and beautifully powerful.

If they thought they could force him to live, they were wrong. This time, he _would_ get away.

His senses homed in on the tubes and wires that connected him to his bulky, hated breathing apparatus. With vindictive pleasure, he began to sever them, one by one. Only a slight effort, and the wires sizzled and melted writhingly away.

The sounds were changing now. The machine itself sounded tortured, and he was glad. He wanted it to suffer. And then he couldn't hear the horrible wheezing any more.

_Good._ He wondered if he could feel something different, if there was a greater tightness in his chest, but he wasn't sure. He thought he would explode the bloody machine, too, for good measure. It would only take a little extra concentration. Then they really, really would not bring him back.

Somewhere, far in the distance, there seemed to be an alarm squawking. And maybe, people shouting. It was almost impossible to keep his attention on them. He was starting to drift. He probably wouldn't manage to explode the thing after all. Didn't matter. It felt so good not to care any more.

Then, suddenly, he was fighting again. Something was trying to grab hold of him, pulling him back. He screamed at it in rage, or thought he did. His rage, undirected, blasted out, and something did explode. He heard the sound of it, and people's shouts, and the crackle of flames.

But he could hear them. Damn it, he could _hear_. He was back. And the flames were being extinguished, and people were speaking urgently, and surrounding him, and no. No, no, no, they were going to start him breathing again.

_No! Let me go!_

He woke with a choking gasp. He felt the usual surge of relief on discovering that he was sitting up, not flat in a hospital bed, and breathing through his own breathing mask, not through banks of equipment that filled most of the room. His heartbeat and breathing both were faster than normal, and he smiled at the realisation. He could hyperventilate now, if he wanted to. What a luxury.

He hadn't had one of these dreams in months, but he supposed he should have expected it. The dreams always tended to come back when he was particularly under stress. He should have known, tonight, when he'd been unable to free himself from the events of the day enough to successfully meditate, that a dream was on its way.

Vader reached up in the darkness, rubbing a hand over his exposed eyes.

_I shouldn't let it get to me,_ he thought. It wasn't political or military matters that were bothering him. They were going fine, or as fine as could be expected. On the whole, the past year could be counted as a success story. The New Alliance had won several significant victories and had almost doubled their manpower through continuing Imperial defections. No, damn it, the problem was his children.

This waiting game he played with Leia was starting to wear on him. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't push her. He would not try forcing her to accept him. As long as it took her, that was how long he was willing to wait. But he'd never been good at waiting. The icy politeness of all their official encounters, and her complete refusal to interact with him in any social context whatever, was shredding his patience.

He knew, with depressing certainty, that she would have been happier if he'd died. Maybe then she could have accepted him. If he'd managed some sort of martyr's death, bringing down the Empire and sacrificing himself to accomplish it, perhaps then she would someday have come to terms with being Darth Vader's daughter. Alive, he brought her only anger, embarrassment and fear.

And Luke. Poor Luke, he was just as bad. Completely different, of course. He wanted so desperately to win Darth's approval. They were getting closer. There _were_ times when Darth thought he and his son might be close to understanding each other. But still something kept getting in the way. And Vader knew exactly what that _something_ was.

_Obi Wan Kenobi._

The very thought of that name sent a cold rush of fury through him. Vader rested his forehead on his hands. _Damn the stupid old bastard._ At times the anger made Darth feel almost physically sick, at the thought of Obi Wan getting his claws into Luke's mind. As if it weren't enough to steal Darth's children from him. The senile fool had to go and ooze his poison into Luke, twisting the boy with all that pathetic, delusional Light Side lunacy. Trying to cut Luke off from at least half of his powers, and dooming him to soul-destroying guilt whenever he did anything that was not pure and Good from every possible angle.

He could understand how it had happened, of course. Luke, with everything he had known taken away from him, would have been a perfect victim for Obi Wan's platitudes. He must have eagerly lapped up the old man's righteous, plausible-sounding lies.

There was a time when Vader, too, had believed everything Obi Wan said. Until he'd discovered just how much of the Jedi's vaunted Light Side was merely a screen, with which he tried to hide from himself the darker possibilities inside him.

_Just because you cannot accept yourself, Obi Wan, must you doom your pupils to the same curse?_

Like a chill breeze, awareness of something beside his own anger brushed against Vader's mind. Vader sat upright again, turning all his attention outward.

Perhaps it had not been simply the dream that had awakened him. Yes. There was something out there.

It was not a mental presence that he sensed. Try as he might, he could not detect any being's thoughts. But something outside his meditation chamber was a threat, and it was focused on him. It was also getting nearer.

Without switching on any lights in the chamber, he replaced the upper portions of his mask, and pressed the button which caused his helmet to descend from the chamber's ceiling and settle onto his head. His lightsaber -- a new one, constructed over the past year to replace the one which had vanished into the Death Star's power core -- leapt gracefully from the panel where it had rested, into his outstretched hand.

As he fastened the lightsaber to his belt, Vader decided to try teleporting. Of course he was going to look phenomenally stupid if he teleported himself into a wall, or straight onto the assassin or whatever was out there, but the risk of that seemed less than if he opened the meditation chamber and presented himself as a target. He had been practising teleportation recently, determined that if Emperor Palpatine could master it, he would as well. He was reasonably sure that he had enough control of it now. In any event, he would soon find out.

Vader flicked on the night vision enhancers in his mask. He switched on the silencer in his respiratory system, as well. His breathing was not so efficient with the silencer on, and he could not maintain it for long, but it should be sufficient for his present purposes.

Clearing his mind of all other thoughts, he focused first on the threat that he sensed. It seemed to be only a metre and a half or so away from the meditation chamber. No time to think about this; if he was going to do anything, it would have to be now.

Without allowing himself any second thoughts, he flung his consciousness into the room beyond. He found himself standing next to the door. _Good._ Vader studied the scene that greeted him.

He had not been imagining things. Hovering outside the meditation chamber, about half a metre from the floor, was the long, lanky form of a Y342 assassin droid. It was not an up-to-date model, and from the scars and dents on the metal body, this particular droid had seen some fairly rough service. Whoever was after Vader didn't think he was worth risking state-of-the-art equipment on. He supposed that he ought to feel insulted.

The droid must have been monitoring his life signs. As the life signs in the chamber winked out, the assassin bobbed in apparent confusion, the faint humming it emitted growing slightly louder. Then its readings picked up Vader's presence beside the door.

The blaster-arms of this model could fire in any direction, without the droid needing to turn. Both arms flashed upward, toward Vader.

Vader hurled a wave of power at the droid before it could fire. The humming rose into a squeal. A web of sparks almost obliterated the droid's head. Its retractable legs plummeting downward, the droid landed on the floor with a heavy thud. The squeal cut off abruptly.

Vader switched his breathing back into audible mode. _Neat little trick, that,_ he thought, eyeing the motionless droid. _I ought to try it on Luke and Leia's protocol droid the next time it gets too full of itself. Except that they would probably pout._

Of course, the assassin droid could be shamming. Some of them were programmed with enough self-awareness and initiative for them to play dead. He doubted it, in this case, but he didn't want to get himself blasted by underestimating an out-of-date heap of scrap metal. Focusing most of his power on his personal defences, Vader took a few steps toward the still faintly smoking droid.

At that moment, the door to the room whooshed open, letting in a rush of light. A security team raced into the room, blasters drawn. They skidded to a halt at the sight of the calm, very much alive Vader, and the forlorn, short-circuited droid.

The short, blond woman at the head of the team cast a wary look at the Dark Lord and his would-be assassin. "Lord Vader," she said. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Quite all right, Commander Narita. As you see, I had a visitor."

Out of courtesy for his guests, Vader used a slight nudge of power to turn up the light levels in the room. Commander Narita stepped cautiously toward the droid. "How the fuck did this get here?" she muttered.

Vader, the commander and her team stared down at the assassin in silence. "I suppose," Narita mused, "it could have been smuggled in on one of the cargo ships, and only activated once it was inside the base."

Vader nodded thoughtfully. "Possible," he agreed. "What brought you here? Did you receive an intruder alert?"

"No, sir. We picked up a transmission, not on any of our usual channels. It started in the corridor and moved into your quarters."

Two of Narita's team were kneeling beside the droid, taking readings. "Sir," one of the guards reported, "this is the source of the transmission, all right. It was sending a visual record of everything it encountered."

Narita asked in a weary voice, "I don't suppose we know where it was sending the record?" The man shook his head. "Off-planet," he said. "We'll try and trace it," but his voice did not hold out much hope.

Narita scowled at the droid in distaste. "And find out whether it was activated by remote," she ordered. She turned to Vader. "I'm sorry about this, sir," she said. "We'll step up security, of course. If you like, we can post some guards outside your quarters -- "

"No need, thank you, commander. If our friend here had encountered any guards, they would almost certainly be dead."

The commander frowned at the implied slight to her guards, but she did not debate that conclusion.

The door swept open again, and another figure appeared, also armed with a blaster. For the first time since this incident began, Vader felt an actual jolt of surprise.

Leia stood in the doorway. She was looking more dishevelled than he had ever seen her. Her long hair had once been held back in a braid, but most of it had now escaped. She was wearing trousers, but no shoes, and the loose and unevenly buttoned shirt she had on almost certainly belonged to Han Solo.

Vader thought she looked wonderful, but he definitely wasn't going to tell her so.

Leia swiftly took in the scene before her, then she lowered her blaster and stepped into the room. "Are you all right?" she asked Vader, in as matter-of-fact a voice as she could manage under the circumstances.

"Yes," he said, too surprised to come up with anything more.

Leia turned to Narita. "What happened?" she demanded briskly.

She was going to ignore him again, but he didn't care. He was too busy replaying in his mind the look on her face when she'd first appeared in the doorway. The wide dark eyes and the slightly parted lips, and the traces of fear that had whispered through her aura until she had seen him. _Until,_ he assured himself. _Definitely until._ This time, it wasn't him she'd been afraid of.

Probably, he admitted, he was reading too much into this. It was just a bit too sad for him to treasure to his heart the thought that she might actually have been concerned about him. But, he was going to treasure that thought, wasn't he? _Yes. Damn it._ After waiting a year for any morsel of acceptance, obviously he would leap at the slightest hint. _Bloody hell,_ he thought. _What a ludicrously dysfunctional family._

More running steps were pounding down the corridor. Han Solo piled into the room, followed a few seconds later by Luke. Han was missing his shirt, which seemed to support the hypothesis that it was currently on Leia. "Are you okay?" Han demanded of Leia, grabbing her shoulders and interrupting the report that Narita was giving. "What the hell did you run out like that for?"

Leia pursed her lips in annoyance, but only jerked her head toward the assassin droid on the floor.

Han looked over at it, then whistled softly. "Holy shit," he murmured. "I haven't seen one of these things in years." He walked over to the droid. "Somebody rob a museum, or what?"

"Sir," one of the guards called to Narita. "This droid's undergone a lot of modifications recently. This model isn't supposed to have as sophisticated a recording system as this one's got. And it's had long-range remote activation installed. It could've been started up by someone in the next Star System."

"Great," Narita muttered. "Well, Lord Vader," she said, "I guess someone really wanted to watch you die." T

he eyes of both of his children turned toward him, then Leia immediately looked away again and busied herself in consultation with Narita.

Luke looked from Darth to Leia, then back again. "Are you all right?" Luke asked Darth, predictably.

Vader nodded absently. He was feeling ridiculously smug.

Leia had sensed his danger. She still hated him, of course. But it was a start. He wondered how long it would take his sophisticated, business-like daughter to notice that she'd mis-buttoned her shirt.

* * *

 

Simara Mothma, Head of State of the New Alliance, Honorary Mon of the Calamari People, last Senior Senator of the Old Republic, was in danger of falling asleep at her desk.

Mon Mothma knew she should go to bed. It was pointless to go on like this, pretending to continue working while her attention wandered and her eyelids drooped, her head going through the time-honoured routine of nodding steadily lower, then jerking upward, waking her up for a few guilty minutes of work before it all started again.

She knew this was pointless, but she still had so much to do! If she could only stay awake for perhaps an hour longer. She glared at the stacks of printouts and document disks looming before her. She also, she admitted to herself, did not want to go back to her quarters.

This, also, was completely illogical. If she could sleep at her desk, why not in her own bed? But there was just something about her dark, silent quarters that depressed her, especially on nights like this.

It was raining again, of course. It always rained on Omean, or at least it seemed to. You couldn't hear it in her office, which was in a lower level of the caverns that they'd used as a basis for their rapidly constructed headquarters buildings. But her room was in an upper level, with a window that opened onto the surface of Omean. It was meant to be a luxury, an acknowledgement of her status. All it meant in practice was that she lay awake at night listening to the lonely splattering sound of the rain against the window. In particularly melancholy moments, her imagination leapt to the obvious comparison of the unending rain with the desolate tears of some vast being -- perhaps the tears of the planet, or even of the galaxy itself.

Mon Mothma bit her lip in irritation. Surely tonight she was exhausted enough to sleep even if the galaxy _was_ crying on her window.

She eyed the nearest stack of paper. Then again, an hour more of work would make a real difference, if only she could really work, instead of just pretending to.

Right. The conclusion was obvious. Time for some coffee.

She decided against summoning a droid to bring her the coffee. The walk to the canteen might help wake her up, and besides, it would probably be the most exercise she'd had all day.

Mon Mothma stood up from her desk, half convinced that she could hear every bone in her body creak as she did so. _Really,_ she thought exasperatedly as she headed out the door, _I ought to know better than this._ She dreaded to think what Dodonna or Rieekan, the only two of her co-workers who'd been with the Rebellion long enough to see Mon Mothma as a friend rather than a respected superior, would say if they caught her overworking like this. But, to hell with it. She had five more reports to read before tomorrow, and it was raining, and she did not want to go back to her quarters and listen to it.

The canteen was in the next level below her office. When she was halfway down the ramp, she saw through the plastisteel partition separating the canteen from the corridor that some other late night workaholic had the same idea as she did. A brown-haired man in the green uniform that marked him as one of their former Imperials was seated at a table by one of the dark metal walls, slightly hunched over a selection of documents which were spread out over the table. In his left hand he held a mug. He sipped from it distractedly, never taking his attention away from the papers before him.

For a moment Mon Mothma hesitated, then she continued down the ramp, silently cursing at herself. It was not going to be the end of her career for some colleague to see her on a coffee-run at two thirty in the morning. And so what if she did probably look like she'd been savaged by banthas; most members of the Alliance had probably seen her look worse. Life and death struggles for the future of the galaxy did not leave much time for daily beauty regimens.

As Mon Mothma stepped into the canteen, the man at the table started and looked up from his papers. Mothma recognised, with some surprise, Lord Vader's second-in-command, Admiral Piett. She also recognised the instinctive look of fear that appeared on his face.

She had noticed it before. Almost invariably, whenever anyone equal or superior to him in rank seemed to notice Piett, the Admiral's immediate reaction would be a brief instant of apparent terror. It never lasted, and it never seemed to get in the way of his being an efficient officer. But it always made its appearance: the almost imperceptible jump, the tiny intake of breath, the jolt of fear widening his eyes. He made her think of a domestic animal which had been habitually beaten by its master, and which now expected the same treatment from everyone.

"Admiral," Mon Mothma greeted him.

His look of terror dissipated. "Ma'am," he said politely, standing up from his paper-strewn table and bowing slightly.

A service droid had been ambling about polishing tables, but as Mothma walked into the canteen it had bustled up to her. "A cup of coffee, please," she told it. "Black, with one sugar." The droid beeped obediently and scuttled away to fulfil her request.

Mothma looked back toward Piett, trying to think of some small talk that wouldn't sound too lame. She realised that although she'd spent a year encountering Piett in meetings nearly every day, she knew him hardly at all. Not that she was particularly close with any of her colleagues. But she suddenly wondered, with a twinge of guilt, if she should have tried harder to get to know their formerly Imperial allies. She wondered if the green uniform, even without the Imperial insignia which had long since been removed from it, had been preventing her from seeing Piett and the others as human beings. Or maybe she just saw them as human beings against whom she'd been at war for twenty years.

Small talk, quick, before the silence got too awkward. Mothma smiled self-deprecatingly, running a hand through her short, auburn hair. "They definitely don't pay us enough," she said. "I don't think heads of state and admirals are supposed to have seventeen-hour work days."

Piett shrugged and managed a faint answering smile. "We could always form a trade union," he said. Mon Mothma wondered if that was the first time she had seen the admiral smile.

Piett was hurriedly sweeping up documents from his table, tidying them into a neat stack at one corner. "Will you join me?" he asked.

For a moment Mothma stared in surprise. Then she thought, _Why not?_ She had just been thinking she should try harder to get to know their Imperials. The five reports would keep till tomorrow.

"I don't want to interrupt your work ... " she began.

He grimaced. "I haven't been working for the past hour. Just staring. I think my brain's put up a forcefield; even coffee isn't getting through it."

_That sounds familiar,_ she thought. "I hate to sound mothering," she said tentatively, "but you could go to bed."

Another grimace, a more wry one this time. "With respect, ma'am, so could you."

She sighed. "So I could."

The droid arrived with her coffee, in one of the orange plastic mugs generally used by the Rebellion. Piett presented his own mug to the droid, politely asking for a refill, and Mothma noticed that it was one of the black ceramic mugs with the Imperial insignia blazoned in blue upon them. They were standard issue on the star destroyers, and had not been replaced. There was no reason why they should be, she reminded herself; it would be asking too much of their allies to completely restock almost thirty star destroyers-worth of crockery in an attempt to excise the Imperial motif from memory. She noticed that Piett's coffee mug was chipped at the rim, an appropriate enough metaphor for the Empire.

Mon Mothma took a seat, and Piett sat down opposite her. She sipped cautiously at her coffee, glancing over the orange mug at Piett's stack of documents. "What have you been working on?" she asked as she set down the mug. The top document seemed to be an immensely complicated blueprint.

"Shield generators," he answered. "You know we've been working on installing new shields in the star destroyers. We've got two new ones installed so far, but I think we should still be able to improve them further. Mind you," he added ruefully, "anything would be an improvement on the current model. I don't know why we bothered installing shields in the first place, if we were just going to stick the generators on the top of the ships with a sign saying 'shoot me.'"

Mothma found herself laughing with surprise. "I must admit," she told him, "Imperial shield generators have long been a standard joke in the Rebellion."

The service droid presented Piett with his replenished coffee. Piett managed another slight smile, which looked like an expression his facial muscles were not used to. "I'm not surprised," he said. "The only thing more pitiful than the shields is the stormtroopers' shooting ability." Immediately he looked embarrassed at having said so much. "Sorry," he said quickly. "This time of night, I'll grumble about anything."

She nodded, taking another sip of her coffee. "I know the feeling."

"So what were you working on?" Piett asked.

"Reports on the planets in the Chandrilan Union."

"For the treaty meeting?"

She nodded. Piett frowned slightly, as if trying to remember something. "You're from Chandrila, aren't you?"

"Yes." She drank from her coffee again, looking away from him. "I haven't been back in almost twenty years."

Mon Mothma shook her head suddenly. She was not going to get melancholy about home with Piett across the table from her. "Where are you from?" she asked him.

His mouth twisted slightly in a grimace of dislike. "Pokrovsk," he said. "In the Sarskoi system. You won't have heard of it." Now it was her turn to frown.

"I think I have ... no. Sorry. All that comes to mind is wood. I think my mother had a bookcase that she said was Pokrovsk cedar?"

Piett nodded. "Right. The timber industry's basically all Pokrovsk's got. That and rain." He cast a glance up at the ceiling, as if he could see through all the levels of the building into the rain-sodden sky above. "We get rain about 80 percent of the year on my part of the planet. It's one of the reasons I left."

"Ah." She smiled sympathetically at him. "So Omean must be a nightmare come true for you."

He shrugged and tried to manage another smile, but this time it didn't quite work. He took a swig of his coffee instead. Then he winced, and a look of unmistakable pain crossed his face. Piett bit his lip and glanced quickly away, seeming to stare with great attention at the plastisteel partition.

"Are you all right?" Mon Mothma asked in unfeigned concern.

He nodded, turning back to her. "Fine," he said dismissively. "I probably ate something I shouldn't have. I've got terrible digestion." She accepted that, saw that her coffee was nearly gone and considered whether to go back to her office, and decided against it. "Tell me about the new shield designs," she requested. Piett complied, launching into an explanation with obvious enthusiasm.

She _was_ listening to him, really. But if she was honest with herself, she would have to admit that she was giving more attention to studying his face.

It was a pleasant enough face, she thought, when he wasn't looking like a scared swamp mouse. Not wildly handsome perhaps, but definitely intriguing, with his sharp chin and his prominent cheekbones and the deep hollows under his eyes. Mothma wondered how long it had been since he had been used to smiling.

Meanwhile, he was telling her more about shield generators than she had ever wanted to know. Well, she had asked. She said, when he paused with a questioning look to make sure that she hadn't fallen asleep while he enthused at her, "You know a lot about this. Probably more than most of our engineers."

He looked embarrassed. "Not really. I took a class on shield technology at the Academy. When we started planning the new shields, I just dug out my old lecture notes."

That comment jolted her. She realised, with a sensation that might even have been envy, how different his life must have been from hers. A man who's had an orderly enough life for him to still have his Academy lecture notes. Who hasn't spent twenty years on the run from the Empire. Who hasn't regularly lost everything he possessed.

_Oh, no._ Now she was starting to be self-pitying, even without the sound of the rain to set her off. Determined not to focus on herself, she asked him the first question that sprang to mind, "What years were you at the Academy?"

"I graduated Third Year of Palpatine."

She shouldn't have asked. _Third Year of Palpatine._ Piett had probably been taking his final exams when she had first fled from Coruscant with a price on her head. A swift calculation told her that Piett, if he'd attended the Academy at around the usual age, must be at least ten years her junior. She felt immeasurably old. Of course, it was nearly three in the morning.

Her face must have been revealing more than she thought. Piett was looking at her hesitantly. "You were outlawed that year, weren't you?" he asked quietly. "I remember it was all we could talk about. It got to be sort of a status symbol to say you were a Mothma supporter -- the way to prove one could thumb one's nose at authority. One guy even had a pin-up of you in his locker." Piett blushed suddenly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned that."

She stared at him in amazement. Then, to both her own surprise and his, she burst into peals of laughter. "Sorry," she gasped, trying to still the laughs. "Oh, sweet heavenly Light. Sorry. I just don't feel like much of a pin-up."

The service droid had trundled over to make sure that her laughs didn't indicate distress. "Sorry," she said once again. She glanced over at the droid, then back at Piett. "Do you want another coffee?" Mothma asked the Admiral.

He looked even more surprised, then he smiled at her. And the smile didn't even seem to be an effort for him this time. "Why not?" he said.

And suddenly it didn't feel like three in the morning any more. And she didn't feel old.

* * *

 

"There. Try it now."

Commander Wedge Antilles obeyed, flipping a series of switches on the x-wing's control panel. He looked out through the side window of the cockpit at Lord Darth Vader, who had scrambled from under the x-wing and who now stood back, hands planted on his hips, watching critically.

"Any luck?" Wedge inquired.

Vader shook his head. "No," he said, his voice coming through on the x-wing's comlink. "An improvement, but you can still see the ship. It's slightly more transparent." Vader sighed. "All right. Switch it off and let's try again."

"Right," Wedge sighed back. Off went the switches again, then he extricated himself from the cockpit and clambered down to stand beside Vader, joining him in glaring at the x-wing.

"What do you think we're doing wrong?" asked Wedge.

"We won't know that till we've done it right."

Vader stood in musing contemplation. "There's just too much power drain," he said finally. "We've either got to up the central power, or power down some non-essential systems when the cloak is in use."

"Yeah," said Wedge. "Damn. I hoped we wouldn't have to do that."

"Well, commander, we don't have to yet."

Their pondering was interrupted by a voice from across the hangar bay. "Lord Vader?"

They turned toward the voice. Lubin, one of the pilots in Wedge's squadron, was hurrying toward Vader, Wedge and the x-wing. "Lord Vader, a transmission came through for you at the command centre," he reported, when he reached them. "They've passed it on to us."

Vader nodded acknowledgement. He turned to Wedge. "See what you can accomplish here."

"Right."

Vader strode away. Wedge was about to climb back into the cockpit, to check whether the cloaking device would have enough power if he switched off the deflector shields. He paused when he happened to glance at Lubin. The pilot, watching Vader's departure, spat into his right hand and then made three circles in the spittle with his left thumb. Wedge had no difficulty in recognising the Correllian sign for protection against evil.

"What the hell was that for?" demanded Wedge.

Lubin turned to face his commander, looking defensive. "It's -- " he began.

"I know what it is," Wedge snapped. "Are you in the habit of invoking the deities against your commanding officers?"

"No," Lubin said truculently. "Only against him."

_Oh, hell._ Wedge raised his eyebrows. "You got a problem?"

Lubin hesitated, then said, "Yeah. I don't think he should be here."

Wedge resisted the temptation to remind him that "here," specifically, was the super star destroyer _Executor_ , which had helped turn the tide of a good many battles in their favour recently, and which would not be on their side at all if Vader were not as well. But, of course, he knew what Lubin meant.

Wedge eyed Lubin sardonically, leaning back against the side of the x-wing. He said, "You're missing something here, Lubin. I guess you spent the last year stuck in Hyperspace? You missed Vader’s little diversion manoeuvre at Loma, hunh? You were taking a nap when the _Executor_ popped up behind the enemy at Minnac Three? Nobody’s mentioned to you how many times Lord Vader’s saved our ass?"

The pilot shrugged and looked sullen. Wedge had a strong urge to rearrange Lubin's face. But, Wedge regretfully reminded himself, he was Lubin's commander, and it was his job to see to the welfare of the men _and_ the efficiency of the squadron. If there was a problem, it was his job to sort it out.

He sighed, and tried to make his voice sound calm and reasonable. "Look, Lubin, if you've got a problem with Vader, you're going to have to get over it. We don't have time to be fighting our own people. If this is some kind of bigoted hang-up ... Hell. If you can work with Sallustans, Calamari and Wookiees, you can definitely work with a guy who wears a mask and wheezes a lot."

Lubin sneered, and Wedge really wanted to punch him. "It's not the wheezing that bothers me, commander."

Was that just Wedge's imagination, or had Lubin put sarcastic emphasis on "commander?"

Lubin went on, "It's the strangling."

_So much for sounding calm and reasonable._ Wedge demanded, “Have you ever seen him strangle anybody?"

Lubin avoided meeting Wedge's eyes, but said nothing.

"Have you ever _heard_ of him strangling anybody since he joined us?"

Still nothing.

"Well, then, shut the fuck up. Don't talk about things you don't know shit about."

Lubin shuffled his feet a little, but still looked rebellious.

"You got anything to say?" Wedge asked harshly.

Lubin snapped to attention, finally. "No, sir."

"Fine. You're dismissed."

Wedge turned back to the x-wing, fuming. _And you, Wedge,_ he thought, _sound like a first-rate asshole._ More disturbingly, he had very nearly ended up quoting his grandmother. "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

Great. He'd always hated it when she said that, too. Well, fuck it. He was getting sick of this shit. How many more heroic deeds did Vader have to pull off before people accepted that he wasn't going to sell them out to the highest bidder?

Then he noticed that Lubin was still there. He turned back to the pilot, with what he hoped was a withering look. "I said, you're dismissed," he said icily.

Lubin shrugged. "You wouldn't think he's such a hero if you saw who he's talking to," he smirked. He started to stroll irritatingly across the hangar bay.

_Shit._ Maybe there was something to be said for the Empire's way of doing things. A little more discipline around here might not be such a bad thing.

Wedge had never felt comfortable behaving like an officer, figuring he'd get as good or better performances out of the squadron if he treated them like friends. But hell, some people weren't friends. Maybe a good kick up the backside was what they needed, to remind them what was expected of them.

Having decided that no one was watching him, Wedge rested his forehead for a few seconds against the cool metal of the x-wing's hull. He thought, _It really is good that I don't have one speck of Force power. If I did, there'd be a lot of strangled Alliance members around. Maybe a few with imploded skulls, for good measure._

Taking a deep breath, Wedge climbed back into the cockpit. Sure, okay, he knew where Lubin was coming from. It wasn't easy for a lot of people, to turn around and work with someone they'd always fought against. But couldn't they try seeing Lord Vader himself, instead of just seeing the enemy?

Wedge sighed. _Maybe I am too trusting,_ he thought. _But Vader's a godsdamned fine engineer, and he's the best pilot I've ever known. I like him. If that's stupid of me, then it's too damn bad._

He shook his head. What was that idiot Lubin on about, anyway? Who was supposed to be so terrible that Vader'd be incriminated just by talking to them? He really didn't think the Emperor had called up for a chat.

Hunh. Maybe it was the late lamented Grand Moff Tarkin, with a glowing blue light around him. It sounded like the sort of thing that would happen to Luke's father. It sure was a pity Lord Vader didn't seem to eat, or not in public, anyway. Wedge would love to have heard the dinner-table conversation in _that_ family.

Lord Vader, meanwhile, had learned who was sending him the message. It was a surprise, but not an unpleasant one.

"Boba Fett," he greeted the man who appeared on the screen.

The bounty hunter seemed unchanged, despite the lurid stories of his gruesome death. Just possibly, there was a slight bit more paint missing from his famous grey-green helmet, but Fett's armour was so celebratedly battered, it was hard to tell.

Boba Fett was calling him from transit. Vader did not immediately recognise the starscape that was visible behind Fett through the viewing port of his ship, but it could easily be identified, if necessary.

That showed one thing straight off. Fett was indicating that he was willing to trust Vader with his location, so Vader should be prepared to give equal trust to him. Not that there was much chance of anyone actually capturing Fett, should they for some insane reason wish to do so. He wasn't likely to stick around in front of that same starscape waiting for them to come get him. But it was the symbolism that counted.

The message showed something else. Fett must have been waiting for some time, while the transmission was routed from the base to the _Executor_ , and Vader was summoned. The bounty hunter could easily have sent a recorded message instead. That he hadn't, showed he had a particular reason to speak to Vader in person.

Fett had been puttering with the array of tracking instruments at his console, and only slowly took his attention from them to face Vader. Another very typical bit of Boba Fett body language. This might be the Dark Lord of the Sith, but Fett was not going to be hurried.

"I'm pleased to see you alive," Vader commented. He was, too. Fett was the artist of the bounty hunting profession; it would be a pity for his skill to be removed from the galaxy.

Fett gave a curt nod. "I'm sending some information," he said. "If you don't have it already, it might be useful."

Vader inclined his head slightly in return. "Is there a price for this information?" he inquired.

"No. A friendly gesture."

There were those who would say that Boba Fett was incapable of making a friendly gesture. There were also those who would say that Darth Vader was incapable of joining the Rebel Alliance. A slight tinge of humour entered Fett's harsh voice as he continued, "Should the Rebellion require a bounty hunter, I hope you will consider me."

The console before Vader indicated the arrival of another transmission from the same source, a recorded message this time. Boba Fett reached out to end his transmission, then added, just before his image winked out, "Give my regards to General Solo."

When the bounty hunter had vanished, Vader called up the second message onto the screen. He sat staring at it for some minutes.

_Damn._ It was a general contract, offering a substantial reward for the death or capture of Darth Vader. The contract specified that capture was preferable, but that the full sum would be paid for verifiable visual proof of Vader's death.

The date of the contract was five standard days ago. The unknown owner of the assassin droid from two nights ago had not wasted much time. Vader skimmed to the bottom of the contract, checking the sender's identification code and contact information. It was an Imperial code, not surprisingly. But it was a very specific code. One that, so far as he knew, was used only by the Emperor himself.

_Wonderful._ Palpatine had put out a contract on him. Which meant that every bounty hunter and assassin with more guts than sense was going to be after him. It would almost have been funny, except for the thought that had just occurred to him: how the _hell_ was he going to get any work done?

* * *

 

Mon Mothma asked, "Why has he waited this long?"

"I have wondered that," Vader agreed. "You can be certain it's part of some plan. Palpatine is not the man to forget betrayal, or to wait this long to strike unless he had some purpose in it. This contract is part of a larger attack on us."

Mon Mothma nodded, frowning. "What about this man Boba Fett? Is he part of the Emperor's plan?"

Vader considered that, leaning back slightly in his chair by Mon Mothma's desk. "You think Palpatine might want us to know of the contract? It's possible. Convoluted schemes are a speciality of his. But, I don't think Fett would be involved in it. He has too much sense. No, I believe the bounty hunter's warning is genuine."

"But what does he think he'll gain by it?"

"Protection, if the Rebellion triumphs. I think we may take Boba Fett's warning as a compliment. Fett believes we are likely to win, so he is arranging insurance against certain Alliance members who might bear a grudge against him."

Mon Mothma didn't look happy about that, but she did not pursue it further. "I want you to know, Lord Vader," she said, "that the Alliance will give you whatever support you require. You are one of ours, and we cannot allow you to be threatened. If you wish to request additional security precautions ... "

Lord Vader shook his head. "It should not be necessary. I have every confidence in our security personnel. No stronghold is impregnable, no matter how sophisticated the precautions. If my would-be assassins are determined enough, they will gain access to the base. I should be able to defend myself adequately; we must simply hope that I'm not having an off day when I am attacked."

Mothma's frown darkened. "I'm glad to see you're taking this calmly, Lord Vader," she said with asperity. "Nonetheless, I will meet with the security officers to discuss how we can tighten our defences."

"Thank you," acknowledged Vader. He went on, "This has, at least, answered one other question. I think it's now clear that I will not be accompanying you to the Chandrila treaty meeting. Since my presence is liable to be a magnet for attacks, it would be irresponsible of me to put the meeting in danger. Not to mention the number of Chandrilan delegates who might object to my involvement." Mon

Mothma sighed quietly. "I think you're right. Though there would be equal numbers of Chandrilans who would find your presence a comfort. You are the most striking symbol we have that the Rebellion is capable of victory."

He said, sounding amused, "The _Executor_ should be nearly as striking. Admiral Piett will be able to represent our former Imperial forces, without recalling so many unpleasant associations with persecution and mass murder."

The Rebel Head of State looked as though she wished he had not recalled those associations to her, either. But as she had said, he was one of theirs, persecution and murder or no.

She was about to say something else, when the buzzing of the door's entry bell interrupted her. Mothma reached for the control panel on her desk, pressed the appropriate button, and the door slid open.

Princess Leia stepped into the office. The Princess was looking flustered. She began, "Mon Mothma, I'm sorry to disturb you -- "

The realisation of Vader's presence stunned her into silence. Vader stood up. The sudden force of his action knocked the chair backward, and it would have tipped over if Mon Mothma had not caught it.

"Don't worry, Leia, come in," Mothma said. "Lord Vader and I have nearly finished our discussion."

The look Leia cast at Darth Vader was one of near panic. "No, no, that's all right," she said hastily. "It's not important. I'll come back later." She turned and literally fled from the room.

Leia hurried down the corridor, barely paying attention to where she was going. She managed to make it back to her own office. The door swooshed shut behind her, and she locked it, then she stood there for a moment, leaning against the wall.

The shudders that had been threatening to overwhelm her took over. Leia gave a trembling gasp. She put one hand to her forehead and then dragged her fingers through her hair. Of all people who could have been in Mon Mothma's office, it just _had_ to be Vader.

She wondered if he knew. She had a horrible suspicion that the moment she'd entered the room, it had been clear to him. She didn't know if he could read her mind, but Luke could sometimes. If Luke was able to, why not Vader?

Slowly she managed to still the shudders. _What did you think, Leia,_ she asked herself bitterly, t _hat you would be able to hide it from him? It's going to be pretty obvious._

She sighed, crossed over to her desk and sat down.

_This is not happening._ That was the trite and useless thought that kept coming back to her, and she wished she could believe it. But of course it was happening.

She stared blankly up at the ceiling. She had to talk to someone.

She'd already tried to tell Han once, but had lost her nerve at the last moment, and had fled the hangar where he and Chewie were working on the Falcon, before Han could notice she was there. Right now, though, she felt so desperate to talk about it, she probably would have told anyone. Except, of course, Vader.

Leia spent the next hour attempting to work. She did, in fact, succeed in getting some paperwork out of the way, and focusing on the work almost managed to calm the panic in her mind. Maybe if she had enough reports to read and sign, she could ignore this for the next eight months.

_Yeah, right._

She ran out of reports. She was feeling somewhat more rational; at least she could probably leave her office without bursting into tears on the shoulder of the first person who glanced at her.

Leia stood up. Luke. She would talk to Luke.

It was mid-day. At this hour, Luke always spent some time in the caverns outside the base, meditating and practising his Force abilities. She'd never really got into this meditation thing, though Luke was perpetually trying to get her to join him in his training. Maybe this time she'd take him up on it. She needed all the calming influences she could get.

Leia left her office again, and followed the ramps and corridors down to the lowest level. This area was primarily used for storage, as were some of the caverns themselves. She walked to the door that marked the border between the headquarters building and its surrounding caves. The door was ten metres wide and twenty high. Leia entered her security clearance, and the massive door slid quietly open.

The caves were damp and slightly cool, but not unpleasant. The only sound she heard besides her own footsteps was the soft but insistent dripping of water, from the dark recesses that her sight could not penetrate. The lighting that the Alliance had installed cast a dim blue glow from the cave's ceiling.

Leia paused for a moment and just breathed in the quiet and peace of her surroundings. She knew why Luke liked it here. It seemed so distant from the sterile, metallic environment of the Alliance headquarters. Rebellions and empires seemed to dwindle into non-existence.

She'd been nervous of the caves when Luke first brought her to them, convinced that they would be home to mynoks or something equally repellent. But all the denizens of the caverns seemed timid and harmless; pale little hairless squirrel-things with enormous eyes, that had learned to trust Luke and would sometimes emerge from their burrows to watch him at his training. Once when Leia had been there with him, she'd seen twenty or so of the little creatures, sitting in a semi-circle around the dimly lit edges of the cave and watching Luke with the appearance of solemn interest. The thought still made Leia want to laugh. It was horrible of her to laugh at her brother, but the serious intensity of the cave squirrels' gaze had seemed to have much in common with certain facial expressions of Luke's.

When she stepped into the large, open space of the cavern Luke usually trained in, there were no squirrels to skitter away at her approach. She stopped at the cave entrance, thinking that she didn't blame the cave squirrels for keeping a low profile this time.

Was she under a curse today? Would she spend the entire day with Darth Vader popping up around every corner?

This time she didn't panic. It helped that neither Vader nor Luke had yet seemed to notice her presence. She cursed silently. Typical. She knew that Vader and Luke invariably spent two hours training here each night, usually from 2000 to 2200. What had caused her father and brother to vary their routine today?

She shivered slightly, wondering again how much Vader had picked up from her mind. Who knew what the Force might have told him? Maybe it had shown him that she would come here to find Luke, and Vader had gone to the caverns to wait for her.

_And maybe, Leia Organa, you're being a completely paranoid moron._

She knew she should just turn around and leave immediately, but there was a certain fascination in the scene before her.

Luke and Vader were duelling. Her heart seemed to contract with a feeling of fascinated dread, as she remembered that at least twice they had duelled in earnest. She watched the glowing pattern of crimson lightsaber against green, and imagined that she could see them fighting each other on Bespin Cloud City, or on the second Death Star. The patterns that the lightsabers made in the cavern's darkness were painfully beautiful. She suddenly felt very alone, and wished, for one treacherous instant, that she could be there with them.

She turned and left as quietly as she could, hurrying back through the caves she had just traversed. Luke would have been happy for her to join them, she knew. He was always urging her to do so, telling her she had as much Jedi potential as he had, or more. Probably, Vader would have welcomed her, too. That was all she needed. Her sweet, well-meaning brother and the Dark Lord of the Sith, both trying to recreate her in their own images.

Anyway, she had been stupid to come here. She was calm enough to realise that now. She should never have even considered telling Luke before Han. It would have hurt Han if he found out she'd done that, and rightly so.

There was no getting away from it. She had to tell him.

Leia let herself back into the building, and made her way up to ground level. When she reached the exterior door, she scowled through its transparent aluminium surface at the predictably sullen weather outside. Raindrops plopped with monotonous regularity into a puddle just outside the door. The covered walkway that connected the main building with the hangars and the re-fit centre would keep away most of the rain, but she knew from experience that the air would be raw and unpleasantly chill. Sighing, she fastened up the grey jacket she was wearing, glanced down at her boots and hoped they were still reasonably waterproof, and then resignedly stepped out into the weather.

Leia thought, _Some day, we will choose a nice planet for our base. Something that isn't just rain, or snow, or jungles. Something temperate and sunny with lots of warm, soft beaches. Only then, of course, we wouldn't have time to fight any more, because we'd all be too busy sun-bathing._

The walk to the hangar building was mercifully short. As she reached the door, Leia felt dread creep back into her, but she was determined. This time she wouldn't run away.

She walked inside, undoing her jacket again as she passed the dozen or so ships between the entrance and the _Millennium Falcon_. Her hands were shaking a little, she noticed, so she stuck them into her jacket pockets and wondered whether she could possibly look casual.

Chewbacca was perched on top of the _Falcon_ 's left forward mandible, in the process of some no doubt arcane tinkering that involved the shield projector. Leia had long since given up keeping track of the _Falcon_ 's repairs, improvements and conversions, and trying to stay up-to-date with the endless progression of bits that broke, rusted, fell off, disintegrated, short-circuited, or just got temperamental. She knew that she ought to make more of an effort. Not only did Han love the impossible old rust bucket, but someday Leia's life could very well depend on her knowing what might be wrong with the _Falcon_ on that particular day. But, hell. Han's eyes usually glazed over when Leia talked politics, so if he could be clueless about that, she could be clueless about the _Falcon_.

"Hi, Chewie," Leia called up to the Wookiee. "Is Han around?" What do you know, she actually sounded calm.

Chewbacca gave an enthusiastic roar of greeting, and gestured toward the back of the ship.

Leia said, "Thanks," smiling at Chewbacca and wondering what he would say when he heard her news. Probably, he'd be delighted. At least that meant that someone would be.

She swallowed nervously and started to circle the ship. She hadn't gone far before Han appeared from around the curve of the hull. He looked attractively dishevelled, was slightly sweaty and had somehow managed to get a dark greasy smudge all across one side of his face. Which of course he hadn't noticed, she was sure. Well, she wouldn't tell him about it. She liked it. She liked the guileless happiness of his smile when he saw her, too. She had a moment of temptation to put off her news a bit longer, lure Han into the Falcon and seduce him in the cargo hold. Not that she reckoned he would require much luring.

She sighed. The cargo hold would have to wait. She wondered how long it would be, after she'd told him, before she saw that smile again.

Han said cheerfully, "Hey, princess." He tipped her chin up slightly and bent down to kiss her. Leia snaked her arms around his neck, returning the kiss with probably a lot more force than he'd expected. Then she held him close, with her head on his chest, feeling the thudding of his heart against her ear.

Damn, the cargo hold sounded like a good idea right now. Instead, she reluctantly stepped back, looked up into his face and said, "Han, we've got to talk." A cloud of worry darkened Han's expression. Leia didn't blame him; when the poor man heard those words from her it generally meant he was going to get some kind of lecture. She could see him trying to figure out what he might have done wrong. But he just said, "Okay, sure. You want to go inside?"

She nodded, and they started toward the boarding ramp, arms about each other's waists. They didn't talk again until they reached the main lounge of the ship.

Leia sat down on one of the curved couches. She had to smile at the awkward, hesitant look on Han's face, as he held back, unsure whether he should join her. "Hey, come on, get over here," Leia said softly. "I'm not mad at you about anything."

He said, grinning sheepishly, "Okay, I'll lower my deflector shields."

Han sat down next to her, and Leia snuggled up closer to him. She hoped he would still be sitting there when he found out. Well, she'd know soon enough.

Leia took Han's hands in hers. She began, not really believing she'd finally made it to this moment, "Han, I found out something today that -- that's pretty important. For both of us. I guess you'd better brace yourself."

Understandably, Han looked worried, but nonetheless he gazed at her resolutely. "All right," he said, "I'm braced."

Leia said, "We're pregnant."

It was a long time before Han said anything. When he did speak, all he could manage was a very quiet, "Oh." He swallowed, and said "Oh," again. There was a look of wonder and fear in his eyes which seemed very familiar, because it was what she herself had been feeling all day.

"Oh, my gods," he murmured. Then suddenly he seemed to come back to himself. "Leia. I'm sorry it's -- it's taking me so long ... I ... I mean, are you okay with this?"

She thought about that. "I think so. It's horrible timing. But -- well, it's happened, now."

He said hesitantly, "Then you -- then you do want to go through with it."

She exclaimed, a little shocked, "Of course!"

There was a smile of relief on Han's face. "Good," he said. "Everything's okay, then."

_No, everything isn't okay,_ Leia thought. But she loved him for saying it.

Han was now looking stunned again. "Gods," he whispered. "I mean -- I thought we were being careful --"

She gave the obvious answer, "Not careful enough."

"Yeah. When did you -- find out?"

"I went to the medical centre this morning. But I guess I've suspected for a week or so."

He looked hurt. "You should have told me!"

She shrugged. "It could have been nothing." She looked down, tracing the bones in his hand with one of her fingers. "Han," she said, very quietly, "it's twins."

Han's eyes widened. "Oh," he said again, "my gods."

She tried to smile. "Apparently it runs in the family."

"Yeah, I guess it does. Oh, yikes. Err -- when's it supposed to be?"

"Apparently I've been pregnant almost a month." He was staring with fixed intensity at her belly, and she had to laugh. "No, Papa, you can't see them yet," she teased.

Han looked back into her face, with his lopsided grin. "Sorry," he said. He drifted off into thought again. "Are you still going to the Chandrila meeting?"

"Of course I am. We've got another eight months. I don't have to go off the active service list yet!"

"No, no, of course not," he said hurriedly. "I think I should come with you, though."

She smiled. _Men._ "No way," she told him firmly. "We can't have all our generals traipsing off to a meeting. Someone has to be around in case Palpatine tries to blow Omean out of the sky."

Han looked unhappy. "Hey," she urged him gently, "it'll be okay."

It was pretty funny, she thought, that she was the one saying that, considering the state she'd been in all morning. She leaned her head against him again, and felt herself relax a little as his arms tightened around her.

"Leia?" Han asked.

"Yes?"

"Are you scared?"

She whispered, "I'm terrified."

Han whispered back, "So am I."


End file.
